


Foundling

by EchoThruTheWoods, Razziecat (EchoThruTheWoods), WandererRiha



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Dirge of Cerberus: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: AU, AU of an AU, F/M, Gen, M/M, My Friend Goodbye, Tsviets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2018-10-23 08:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 58
Words: 159,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10716030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoThruTheWoods/pseuds/EchoThruTheWoods, https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoThruTheWoods/pseuds/Razziecat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WandererRiha/pseuds/WandererRiha
Summary: Deepground has fallen, its power broken and prisoners buried or scattered. Chaos may be under control, but other demons now roam the street freely. Rumor of a living shadow has reached the WRO, and Vincent and Veld find themselves face-to-face with the most unlikely possibility of all: family.





	1. Chaos 1, Deepground 0

**Author's Note:**

> Dearest readers, we present for your delectation and delight, the long-threatened AU.  
> The one involving Nero.  
> What follows grew out of some assorted "What If?" chats and snowballed into a living, breathing thing with a mind and will of its own.  
> It's uncanny how this keeps happening, really.  
> We hope you will enjoy our humble attempts at exploring how Veld and Vincent react when a little stranger shows up on their doorstep.  
> Figuratively, anyway.

Chaos fell out of the sky.

Behind him rose clouds of black smoke. Beneath him lay slagged earth. He touched down lightly, shook back his ragged wings, and allowed himself a moment’s deep satisfaction.

Deepground had been purged. Its bunkers, laboratories, and training grounds torn to pieces, blasted wide open, exposing their ugly secrets; its denizens slaughtered or scattered, its military and civilians even now being sorted out by the troops of the WRO.

Most gratifying of all, the Restrictors - those soulless, mindless puppets of the alien parasite called Jenova - were dead. He’d snapped their necks himself, grinding their bones to powder in his borrowed hands. Their bodies, he left lying, mute testimony to justice.

He was done here. It was over, but for the mopping up, and that wasn’t his task. His host could only take so much, despite his many physical modifications. The human’s anger at being so used simmered at the back of his mind. Outrage, indignation, touched with horror and pity, roiled like acid in his stomach. Amused, sated, Chaos gathered himself and fled. He’d earned his rest, and would not be needed again, with any luck, for many millennia. 

Left standing in his place, hollowed out and exhausted to the bone, Vincent Valentine dropped to his hands and knees, retched violently, and passed out cold.

\----- 

“Found ‘im, Chief!”

Veld pushed past the barriers that had been hastily thrown together around the crater formerly known as Deepground. A few thin streamers of smoke still rose lazily, almost transparent in the light of dawn. Skirting the charred, crumbling edges of the pit, he found Tseng, Rude and a couple of WRO personnel beside a man’s long, narrow body.

“Yep, that’s Valentine.” A little of the tension went out of Veld. It had been a very long night. 

The WRO medic crouched beside Vincent looked up at Veld, his face pale. “Sir, it...doesn’t look good.”

Veld got down on one knee, reaching out a gloved hand to brush ash off of Vincent’s face. He pushed one eyelid up, exposing the dark red iris; there was no gleam of Chaos’s gold. 

“Sir,” the medic said again. “There’s no heartbeat.”

Veld laid his flesh hand on Vincent’s chest, just over the place where his heart should be.  


Beneath his palm, the materia pulsed once, so gently he nearly missed it. Some irrational corner of his mind wondered if Vincent had somehow recognized his touch. 

No, of course not. That was nonsense. He rose, brushing the grit from his trouser leg.

“He’s to be taken to the WRO medical wing. NOT to the morgue. Give him a regular bed.”

“But, sir, he’s dead!”

“At the moment, yes, but he’ll be fine.”

The medic looked at Vincent, at Veld, and finally at Tseng, who merely nodded. 

“Just put him in the van,” Veld said, as a WRO ambulance rolled up and stopped nearby. “Make sure he’s monitored. I want to know the moment he comes to.”

He watched as they lifted Vincent onto a gurney and loaded him into the van. 

“I assume you intend to debrief him yourself,” said Tseng.

“Damn right,” said Veld.


	2. Night and Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nero discovers that the grass is not, in fact, greener.

_Pain and darkness. These were not unfamiliar. What he had not expected was his brother’s face, blue eyes open and alight, mouth smiling._

_“Weiss!” Nero shouted, stumbling forward. “Weiss!”_

_His brother did not answer, only watched as Nero staggered toward him._

_“Together at last,” Nero gasped, collapsing against him. “I won’t leave you again. Never, Weiss…”_

_Weiss’ smile turned cruel. Nero gagged on the sudden surge of pain, vomiting acid into his mask as Weiss’ fist rammed into his stomach. Cracked ribs splintered, and Nero sagged in his brother’s grip._

_“Weiss?” he croaked, pleading. Weiss stared down at him coldly. Releasing his hold, he let Nero drop to the floor._

_“I’m finished with you.”_

_Nero held up one hand, reaching for him, but darkness swam before his eyes, blotting out the scene._

_“Weiss!” he screamed, “WEISS!”_

Nero started awake, body convulsing painfully as he coughed. Around him the mako lapped cool and purple-black, deep and silent as the sea. Rather, he imagined the sea to be deep and silent. It was as fathomless as the mako pool, but salty. The comparison probably wasn’t that far off.

He didn’t remember warping down here. He must have done so instinctively after the battle with the...creature. At first he’d thought it was the man in the red cloak, the man with his face. But no, the cape had actually been a pair of folded wings, and a creature with a crest, and claws, and a face like death had attacked him. Nero had never lost to anyone but Weiss or Rosso before. It was not a feeling he enjoyed. He assumed he must have lost because he was injured and hiding in his mako pool in the caverns far below the lowest point in Deepground. Even the Restrictors did not know about his secret hiding place. He was safe here, free to rest and recover until he could fight again.

It had been a dream. Only a dream. Weiss had never been cruel to him before, there was no reason for him to start now. Weiss had been hurt too, hurt by the demon creature, as had Rosso. If ever he crossed paths with it again, Nero vowed that this time, it would be the demon cowering in pain and not himself. Or it would be, as soon as every indrawn breath stopped hurting.

\--

There was no ceiling left to their bedroom. Indeed, there was no roof left to the barracks at all. Virtually everything was gone. There were a few rooms still intact, but even these had suffered incredible damage. Even from such a low vantage, he could look down into the smouldering pit that had once been a hub of activity around Reactor Zero. The reactor was gone too. Overhead, above the smoke and mist of trapped moisture, the sun hung stark and too bright like a bare lightbulb in an empty room.

Nero squinted up at it, feeling that Azul have oversold it somewhat. It hurt his eyes even if he looked away. Rather than squint at the sad remains of his home, Nero slipped into the nearest shadow. Nero didn’t dare try to warp somewhere. It would be a bad idea to try to appear in place that might not exist anymore. Instead, he wandered through the darkness, trying to find familiar slivers of light, slices of paint color, or hints of specific furniture, but most of these keyholes into the world of light and mass had vanished. Nero could only assume they had been crushed by the fallen reactor.

There didn’t seem to be anyone or anything down in the crater. The reactor was gone, perhaps the mainframes had gone with it? Deepground had been vast. Azul had told him once that the city beneath the ground was every bit as large as the one above. If that were true, it might be possible to widen his search without risking setting off his microchip. Unconsciously, Nero rubbed at the nape of his neck with one hand. He’d had the little bit of wire and plastic for as long as he could remember. Every Deepground citizen had had one, from the Tsviets all the way down to the Mothers and children. Should anyone wander past the borders, the chip would detonate, killing its bearer instantly. Nero had often wondered if his shadows would allow him to escape without tripping the chip’s detonator, but he’d never been brave enough to test it. There was, unfortunately, only one way to find out.

\--

If this was freedom, Nero wanted no part of it. Lost and alone, he stumbled from shadow to shadow in a desperate attempt to escape the constant light, the ceaseless noise. There were _so many_ people on the surface, yet none of them were Weiss or Rosso, or Azul or Argento. Azul had once lived on the surface, he would know how to get along up here. Behind the Restrictor’s backs he had told them about the sun, the wind and fresh breezes that blew in from the sea, carrying the taste and the scent of salt. Azul had grown up in Costa Del Sol; a place in Nero’s mind that was one-third, yellow sand, one-third blue sky, and one-third blue ocean. However, this wasn’t Costa Del Sol, this was Midgar, and it was nothing like the surface Nero had constructed in his imagination from Azul’s words. It was, to say the least, somewhat disappointing.

After days without food and precious little water, Nero had to admit that he hadn’t any idea what he was doing. He had vague memories of outdoor survival training, but most of that had involved exactly what he was doing now: how to keep from being seen, and to keep from dying of exposure. There hadn’t been terribly much about how to keep oneself fed by any other method but killing monsters, and there weren’t any monsters around here. He had no need to build a shelter, he had the shadows in which to hide and to sleep. The darkness was the safest place for him. Even in Deepground, those fresh from the surface had been terrified of him, and so Nero took great care not to let anyone see him. Asking for help would do nothing but provoke a panic, perhaps even an attack. Unless he could find the others, he would have to do this on his own.

In Deepground, there had been people to look after himself, Weiss, and Rosso when they were young: nurses, tutors, and later drill sergeants and commanding officers. Although they’d all become officers in their own right, there had always been people to take care of them. Yes, they’d had to keep their rooms and uniforms neat and maintain their weapons, but outside of that, none of them had any real idea how to care for themselves. Fending for oneself was turning out to be infinitely harder than Nero had ever thought possible.

Had Weiss and Rosso been with him, it might not have been so hard. They’d been separated during the final battle, though the details were foggy in Nero’s mind. Nero didn’t mind that Deepground was gone. He would not miss the Restrictors, or the Punishment Pole, or watching his brother and sister be hurt because of him. What he hadn’t counted on was the loneliness, the sheer desperation of being on his own.

Azul was gone, as was Argento. What had become of Weiss and Rosso, he had no idea. He looked for them even as he looked for food, for bits and pieces to repair his suit and mask, for anything that might be useful. He had no money, not that he could have wandered into a store to buy anything. Everyone knew him as an unholy freak of nature, a demon from the underworld thirst for human blood. Nero wasn’t quite that hungry yet, but the knowledge that it was a possibility ate away at him from inside.

There was a routine, he learned, a rhythm to the way things happened on the surface. The city never truly went to sleep, but most people did their business by the light of the sun. They brought things in, used them, and put what they didn’t need outside in metal or plastic bins. Some of these were quite large. Some of them, they put food inside. Almost as soon as they did, Nero took it out again. How anyone could want to throw it away was beyond him. It was _delicious!_ It reminded him of the times he’d raided the Mothers’ garden and shared his ill-gotten gains with Weiss and Rosso.

Weiss, Rosso, Azul, and Argento… They had to be around here someplace. Perhaps they too had gotten out. Then again, perhaps they’d be buried and trapped, unable to get out. Most of the common areas had been crushed, or badly compromised structurally. Going through all their hiding places was taking longer. There were so many, he’d never stopped to think about how many bolt holes and safe corners they’d managed to find down there; places the Restrictors could not see. The only problem was that with everything collapsed, Nero couldn’t see either.

He could see a fair bit from up here. Many of the houses had flat roofs, with high ledges that made a nice bench to sit on. Most people up here went to sleep when the sun went down, but it was impossible for Nero to function during daylight hours. There was too much risk of being seen, and the bright light hurt his eyes. Rather than watch the sun go down, he watched it come up. One of the delivery men had caught sight of him and dropped the food he’d been carrying- something called ‘pizza’- and run. Nero has salvaged the box and eaten what was inside. It was easily the best thing about the surface so far. Over the edge of the jagged horizon of rooftops and chimneys, the sun was climbing higher and higher into the sky, staining it red and gold and orange. Rosso would love this. She loved colors. He would find her soon, and they could all watch the sun together. Azul could teach them how life up here worked. It’d all be okay, just as soon as he found them again.

“Sable?”

Nero jumped and looked down, prepared to dive into shadow. No one called him that except the troops, and all his troops were-- wait.

“Dixon?”

“Good gods, it _is_ you!” she exclaimed, looking up at him in open-mouthed shock. “The hell’re you doin’ up here?”

“Watching the sun,” he told her honestly.

Nero slid into shadow, alighting in front of her. She was fatter than the last time he’d seen her, and wearing a uniform of soft gray. A second soldier stood at her elbow, staring at him in undisguised terror.

“Jameson, this’s Sable, my old CO,” Dixon said by way of an introduction.

“Hello,” Jameson said rather blankly.

“Hello,” Nero replied, nodding politely. Turning to Dixon, he asked: “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Walkin’ patrol. Got a job.” He tried not to fidget as she looked him over.

“You’re a mess,” she announced. “Where you stayin’?”

He shrugged and gestured vaguely at the rapidly fading shadows.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

“I had pizza?” From the look on her face, it was obvious she disapproved.

“Guess it’s true about some men,” she mumbled, mostly to herself. “Helpless on their own.”

Nero felt this was a bit unfair. After all, she had come from the surface, he had not.

“C’mon with us,” Dixon offered. “I work for the WRO now. They’ll see you get a fair shake. Bet they’ll have a spot for you too.”

“Do you think they would know where Weiss and Rosso are?”

“They ain’t with you?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Yeah, they’d probably know. Even if they don’t, they’ll probably be able to help you find them.”

“Okay.”

“C’mon,” she said, smiling. “You come with us.”

Feeling as if he’d found a friend at last, Nero fell into step with her, walking toward the heart of the city. His own shadow loomed before him in the light of the new sun, pointing the way. With any luck, it would lead him to his family.


	3. Refugee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nero gets some help, and Veld gets suspicious.

What did one do with a refugee from Deepground? Especially when said refugee was one of that organization’s most formidable soldiers, and had powers that no one in the WRO understood?

The name he’d given them was Nero, and he appeared to be about eighteen to twenty years old. Tall and long-limbed, he was also clearly starving. 

“This is the mysterious ‘wraith’ that’s been stealing from stores and restaurants?” Veld asked Reeve, observing their guest through the security window. The young man sat quietly in the interrogation room, his slender shoulders drooping, his eyes half closed. Some sort of mask covered about two-thirds of his face. Despite the bright overhead light, shadows rippled over his torso, up and down his arms and legs.

“I don’t know that I’d call it stealing,” Reeve said. “He seems to have mostly just rummaged through the dumpsters.”

“What about the delivery guy who swore a demon appeared out of nowhere and stole the pizza he was carrying?”

Reeve shrugged. “Okay, I guess that was theft, but, Veld, l can’t say I blame him. Have you ever seen anyone that thin?”

“Only once.” Veld glanced at the notes he’d taken while listening to the boy being questioned. “He gave us his name and rank readily enough, told us where he came from, and what he’s been doing in Midgar.”

“Trying to survive, I imagine,” said Reeve.

“He let the doc examine him; other than being a bit malnourished, he seems healthy, though it remains to be seen whether he’s carrying any diseases we ought to be worried about. I guess a period of quarantine will tell.”

“That...might be a problem.”

Veld glanced at Reeve. “How so?”

“Those...shadows of his,” Reeve said, gesturing to the fluid darkness moving over the young man’s body. “Something startled him in Medical, and he just sort of melted into them. Now I know how that sounds,” he added, as Veld’s eyebrow climbed toward his hairline. 

“Some sort of illusion? Magic?”

“No.” Reeve shook his head. “He was gone. The doctor actually felt the exam table, even looked under it, as silly as that sounds. Nero wasn’t there. You can ask the doc and the two security guards. They’ll back me up.”

“I’ll do that,” said Veld, more for the sake of being thorough than anything else. He had no reason to doubt Reeve. “But he’s here now, so how did that happen?”

“Well, he came back. He even apologized for disappearing. Seemed anxious about it. In fact, he’s been on edge since then.”

“Looks pretty beat down now,” Veld said, glancing through the window again. “Could be faking it, I suppose. The whole thing could be some kind of set-up to infiltrate the WRO. Could even be a suicide mission. He might be waiting for something, or someone.”

“Is that likely? Deepground’s been gutted. Most of its troops are dead, and the few who weren’t killed surrendered unconditionally.”

This was true. The Restrictors, Jenova’s puppets who’d apparently been running Deepground, were dead. Veld had verified that fact himself. The fighting had been ugly, but the WRO and its allies had won. Deepground’s HQ had been blown wide open, much of its underground facilities destroyed. A good two-thirds of the place was no more than smoking rubble. 

Chaos had done that, and Vincent was now sleeping it off. Veld didn’t expect to see him rejoin the living for another day or so, despite that it had all happened nearly three weeks ago.

Revenge? Could this Nero be out to exact vengeance for the destruction of Deepground? If so, he told a rather remarkable story. 

He’d claimed he was looking for his brother and sister, lost in the battle, appearing genuinely disheartened when assured that no one fitting their descriptions had been found. At that point, his energy seemed to desert him, and he’d answered a few more questions in a quiet monotone. Tseng, ever the professional, had wrapped things up and stepped out to await further orders.

Even though he’d been listening in the entire time, Veld still took Tseng’s summary of the boy’s answers, and his opinion of the situation. Now Tseng had gone on his way, leaving Veld and Reeve to decide what to do with Nero. 

“Do you really think he’s a danger to us?” Reeve asked. “The doc said he’s dehydrated and exhausted, as well as under-nourished.”

“Of course he’s dangerous. He can apparently come and go as he wants.”

“He’s not carrying any weapons, though.”

Veld snorted. “D’you really think he needs any? If he can slip in and out of a place via shadows, then he can improvise. Grab what he wants and use it against us.”

“Wouldn’t he have done that already?”

Reeve had a point. If Nero’s object was to plant a bomb, assassinate someone, or spy out information, why not do it and go?

He’d been carrying nothing, neither weapons nor communications equipment. He and his clothing and mask had all been very thoroughly searched. After an equally thorough physical examination, the doctor had assured them that both respirator and suit were medically necessary.

Even knowing he’d been caught stealing food, they’d offered him only water, which he’d accepted. He’d asked for nothing.

Sitting there alone in the interrogation room, the boy seemed to be conserving his strength; even the shadows had stilled. As Veld watched, Nero slowly slid from his chair to the floor, knees drawn up with his crossed arms atop them, and laid his head on his arms. 

Maybe he knew he was being watched, and this was all an act. 

Veld’s gut said otherwise. He trusted that feeling; it had kept him alive long past the time most Turks would’ve been gone to dust.

There were things that didn’t add up, and something nagging at the back of his mind that begged for his attention. He’d get no rest if he didn’t address it.

“You mind if I take it from here?” he asked Reeve. 

Reeve waved a hand. “You’re the expert, be my guest. It’s late. I’ll check in with you in the morning.”

Veld called the security guards who were waiting down the hall. With them at his back, he stepped into the room. Nero at once clambered to his feet, blinking, crossing his arms over this chest. His hands shook as they gripped his shoulders.

“Nero,” said Veld, “we’re going to take you to a cell. You can sleep there tonight. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

The boy inclined his head. “Sir.” For a youth, he had a surprisingly deep voice.

“One more thing.” Veld studied him, noting the oddly-familiar way he moved, his height, the ragged black hair and long, slender fingers. “I’m told that mask is a respirator, that you need it to breathe.”

“Yes, sir,” Nero said, twitching just a bit. Veld had the distinct impression the boy had had to stop himself taking a step back.

“I’d like you to remove it. Just for a moment.” To be clear, Veld himself stepped backward, out of arm’s reach so Nero might consider him less of a threat. “Will you do that?”

Nero hesitated. Though most of his face was hidden, his eyes still managed to convey dismay and suspicion. “O-okay.”

Veld waved the guards back. “Go outside. It’s all right.” They obeyed. Veld turned back to Nero. 

“Go ahead.”

Taking a deep breath, Nero reached up and slipped the mask off of his face. 

Veld’s heart missed a beat. He blinked hard, but in that brilliant light he could not be mistaken.

The parchment-pale skin, the narrow, aristocratic nose, the shape of his mouth - Veld had seen them before. Saw them every day; even, most mornings, woke up next to them. Oh, the shape and color of the eyes were a little different, gold on black instead of dark red; and the jaw was squarer, but other than those minor differences--that was Valentine’s face.

Nero could almost be Vincent Valentine’s twin.

He was much too young to be Vincent’s brother, though, which left--

Well. That was going to be a _most_ interesting conversation, as soon as Vincent woke.


	4. Stray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vincent wakes up and receives a grievous shock.  
> At least only a week has gone by, and not two decades.

Vincent stared at Veld. “Come again?”

“I said--”

“No, wait.” Vincent held up a hand, shaking his head. “I just woke up. Gimme a minute to jump-start my brain.”

Sitting on the edge of a borrowed bed in the medical wing, Vincent accepted the hot, sweet coffee Veld had brought. After a few sips, his eyes brightened a bit, and he began to lose the bleary, haunted expression he’d woken up with.

Veld doubted the caffeine still had any effect on him - other drugs did not - but what counted was that Vincent thought it did. Placebos, Veld reflected, could be useful. 

“Now,” Vincent said, setting the cup aside. “What the hell are you on about?”

“We’ve got a Deepground operative on ice. One of the patrols found him running loose in the city, stealing food. He’s got some kind of weird ability to use shadows to hide in and travel through.”

“I got that. Tell me the other part again?”

“He’s the spitting image of you. Well, accounting for one or two minor differences. Come and take a look.”

“I think I’d better,” Vincent said, rising. “Just let me shower and change first.”

\---

Nero looked a damn sight better after a night’s sleep. Veld had been worried that he would leave; they certainly couldn’t stop him. He’d stayed, and was just now finishing what must have been a substantial breakfast. 

The WRO cafeteria wasn’t known for gourmet meals, but they could feed SOLDIERs when needed. At the doctor’s recommendation, they’d provided Nero with enough eggs, sausages and hash browns to sink a battleship. Anyone else would’ve been sick, but the doc’s exam, coupled with info recently pulled from Deepground, told them Nero almost certainly had a SOLDIER’s metabolism. 

“Food can’t hurt him,” he’d said. “Feed the boy as much as he wants.” So they had.

Setting a guard on the kid was more of a formality than anything, as he could apparently shadow himself out anytime he wanted to. He hadn’t done so, which gave some credence to the story he’d told them, but Veld reserved judgement and kept to the protocols. 

He had the guard unlock the door, and stepped inside, Vincent just behind him. 

Nero immediately rose, brushing crumbs from his fingers. “Sir.”

“Nero,” said Veld, “would you remove the mask one more time, please?”

Nero sighed, almost inaudibly, but complied, pulling the mask away from his face. 

Veld felt Vincent’s sudden intake of breath. 

“Oh my gods.” Vincent moved closer to Nero. Nero watched him warily, his eyes darting once to Veld, questioning. 

“Put it back,” Veld said, and Nero replaced the mask, his sigh of relief buzzing slightly through the respirator. He held his ground as Vincent approached. 

“Who are you?” Vincent asked, looking him over from head to foot and back again. 

“My name is Nero. I’m a Tsviet. From Deepground.”

Vincent glanced at Veld. 

“Elite SOLDIER corps, exclusive to Deepground,” Veld supplied. “More of Shinra’s genetic tinkering.”

“Ah. Of course.” Vincent turned back to Nero.

“You...you have my face,” Nero said, gesturing toward his own. “Are you from some other branch of Deepground? A brother they kept in reserve?”

“No. My name is Vincent Valentine. I work for the WRO.”

“Oh! I’m sorry.” Nero’s posture changed subtly, almost as though he was trying to make himself seem smaller. Once more, his arms crossed over his chest. “Please excuse me, sir.”

Vincent flashed Turk signs at Veld: _Is he always like this?_

Veld nodded.

_He’s been questioned?_

Of course, Veld signed back. 

_Fill me in?_

Veld gave a second nod. 

\-----

Veld kept his silence until they’d reached his office and shut the door. He sat down behind his desk, looked up at Vincent, and said, “Anything you want to tell me, Vince?”

“I--what?”

“He’s not your brother, unless your old man made a deposit in a sperm bank somewhere and never told you. And this boy’s far too young for that.”

“...the hell are you asking me?”

“On the other hand,” said Veld, continuing his train of thought, “once Hojo’s involved, all bets are off. What I’m saying is, he got the DNA from somewhere. Someone. You.”

“Veld, I was in a box for twenty years!”

“Yes, and before that?”

“Trapped in his lab for---oh gods.” Color rose in Vincent’s normally pallid face, shifting quickly from pink to green. “You think he… while I was….he took…”

He clapped a hand over his mouth and ducked into Veld’s bathroom. Veld waited until the gagging noises ceased and Vincent had come back, sinking into a chair. 

“You okay?” Veld asked.

Vincent nodded, still a bit on the green side. “You think he’s my son.”

“It’s a possibility. And the important thing is not where he came from, or how he came to be. It’s what are we going to do with him now?”

“What did you learn in questioning?”

Veld shrugged. “He says he’s looking for the other Tsviets. Two were his siblings, and the other two, well, the relationship is unclear. I’m not sure if there’s a blood tie there, or just squadmates. He’s been very cooperative, though.”

“You think it’s a trap.”

Another shrug. “I don’t discount the possibility. Patrols have been doubled throughout the city, guards posted at what’s left of Deepground - which isn’t much - and Tseng’s got Turks prowling around looking for anything, or anyone, unusual. Security here at HQ is on high alert, as well. None of which may matter if there’s anyone else out there who can do whatever it is he does with shadows.”

Vincent glanced at the door, as though Nero might be waiting on the other side of it. “Awful lot of trouble to go through over one skinny boy.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Vincent sat forward, leaning on Veld’s desk. “Veld. What do you really think?”

Veld couldn’t quite suppress his grin. Even after twenty years out of circulation, Vincent could still see right through him. “I think there’s an even chance the kid’s telling the truth.”

“How much would it take for that fifty percent to tip in one direction or the other?”

“Not much,” said Veld. “But as to which direction - we’ll have to wait and see.”

“Hm.” Vincent sat back, and Veld let him think. 

“What if we tried to integrate him with the existing troops? He’s SOLDIER-trained, so he probably kicks ass. We could use him, and it would give him something to do, a structured environment--”

“--and keep him where we can watch him,” Veld finished. “Not a bad thought. Well, you’re head of Weapons and Training, you work with the troops regularly. Do you think he’d fit in?”

“We won’t know unless we try.”


	5. Cut Loose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nero is released into the wild.  
> Except, Nero was raised in captivity.  
> It ends about as well as you might expect.

“Alright Nero, you’re free to go,” Veld said, unlocking the cell door and holding it open for him. Not that he needed it.

“Thank you, Sir,” Nero said, stepping out the cell. He paused and looked around, bewildered, as if unsure what to do.

“Deepground is gone,” he said.

“It is,” Veld confirmed.

“The Restrictors are dead.”

“Yes.”

A pause. “I don’t know who to report to.”

“You’re free, kid,” Veld told him, closing the cell door behind him. “You report to yourself.”

“Oh.” Nero seemed confused by this, but nodded anyway. “I see,” he mused, even though he obviously didn’t.

Veld wished he had some sort of directions for the boy. Most of the Deepground refugees had been common soldiers or civilians who’d been imprisoned, detained, or set free as each case required. Most of them were receiving psychiatric treatment, and quite a few of the military types had opted to be absorbed into the WRO. Nero had been given a similar choice, but it hadn't worked out very well.

“You got a plan?” Veld asked. Nero thought for a moment.

“I’ll find the others,” he said decisively. “Weiss will have an idea.”

“Good luck, kid.” Veld extended a hand to shake. Nero just looked at it blankly, so Veld withdrew it again. After an extra few seconds, Nero saluted. Veld, despite not being military himself, returned it. Without another word, Nero walked down the hall and not through the door, but into the nearest shadow. Veld blinked as Nero melted into the darkness. Instinct drove him to follow, to try to reach after him with one hand into the void, but his fingers met only hard, painted cinderblock.

“Damn,” he muttered.

Despite the innocuous display of power, Veld couldn’t help the feeling of dread and regret curdling in the pit of his stomach. It was the same feeling he’d had when sending out recruits too green for a job because he had no one else to send; knowing he was setting them up not just to fail, but very probably to die. Releasing Nero onto the streets of Edge was not the same as turning a wild animal loose in its native environment. This felt more like abandoning a child in the wilderness. Nero could defend himself physically, Veld had no doubt about that. However, there were other ways to take advantage of a person. The boy might be a Tsviet and a SOLDIER, but he was dependent on stagnant mako, a substance so rare and mysterious that even most scientists were leery of it. He’d been actually, physically starving when they’d brought him in, surviving on what he could scavenge or steal. If nothing else, he could potentially become a weapon for someone else to use for their own purposes. They should never have let him go. But what reason did they have to hold him?

Veld sighed and stepped away from the wall. It was too late now. Nero wasn’t the WRO’s problem anymore, though he might be in the future. Until then, Veld had other, more immediate things to worry about. He pushed Nero to the back of his mind, it was no good trying to put him out of his thoughts entirely. He knew already it wouldn’t work.

\--

Veld stopped in Vincent’s office after seeing Nero off. He found Vincent sitting at his desk, computer pushed aside, legal pad to the fore. Vincent stared into space, absently tapping a pencil on the paper.

“You finishing those reports,” Veld said, “or doodling?”

“Hm? Oh. Hi, Veld.” Vincent stuck the pencil into a chipped coffee mug. “So..he’s gone?”

“Nero? Yeah. Walked straight into a shadow and disappeared.” Veld didn’t exactly shiver, but the twitchy feeling was there, just under his skin.

Vincent nodded, and sighed. Veld knew that air of preoccupation. “What?”

“I just...I feel almost, I dunno, responsible for him, I guess. I mean, I don’t _know_ that he _is_ my son, and I only got a brief look at his face, but…”

“You _don’t_ know that,” Veld agreed. “Even if he is--first, he’s an adult; and second, you are not responsible for someone you didn’t even know existed until a few days ago.”

“I know.” 

“We had to let him go, Vincent. No one wanted to press charges for the food he stole, and he cooperated with questioning to the point where we couldn’t think of any more questions to ask.”

“But is it safe to let him go?”

Veld leaned against Vincent’s desk, crossing his arms while he thought about that. “It’s hard to say. We know he can fight, but what’s left to fight for? Deepground is history. You know what happened when we tried to fit him into our own military. The psych department had a go at him, and their conclusion was that he’d never fit in with our troops.”

“That’s kind of harsh.”

“No, it’s realistic. His Deepground conditioning started the day he was born. Deprogramming him would be difficult at best, and expensive, and success is far from guaranteed.

“SOLDIER’s a dead program, too. We can’t hold him--literally can’t--and we can’t bring him into the organization. He had to be set free.”

“I understand that,” said Vincent. “But what I meant was, is it safe for _him?_ He’s been in Deepground his entire life. Where’s he going to go?”

“When I find out, I’ll let you know.”

“Oh.” Vincent blinked. “You had him followed.”

“Not exactly. Remember, I said he left by going into the shadows. But if he surfaces in the city, we’ll know about it, and then maybe we’ll see if he really did give us the straight story.”

“You don’t trust him.”

“I don’t trust most people, and don’t tell me this is news to you.”

“Well, no. But, Veld, he seemed like a nice kid.”

“Yeah, well, I’m reserving judgement.” No point in explaining his gut feelings. He’d been wrong before. Granted, it had been several decades, but it was better not to overlook anything. One thing he was sure of: Putting Nero into the ranks of the WRO military had been a _very_ bad idea.

Besides that, he wasn’t getting any work done standing here chatting.

He patted Vincent’s shoulder. “Get those reports finished. If you’re done by noon, I’ll treat you to lunch.” 

\--

 

When the reports of dead thugs, muggers, and vagrants began to come in, Veld inwardly sighed. The reports of a man in gray, a living shadow, who killed without mercy followed close behind, and he couldn’t bring himself to feel vindicated even as Reeve looked chagrined. Honestly, what had they _expected_ to happen? Nero was only doing what he’d been trained to do, after all. Despite his recognizable MO, he was still impossible to find.

Veld had personally asked Tseng to assign a tail to Nero. However, the Turk had lost track of him before he’d even begun. Nero had disappeared into shadow the moment he’d left the WRO building and virtually no one had seen him since. He’d kept to the darkness, surfacing rarely. Only the reports of stolen takeout and slaughtered criminals testified to his presence.

“Okay,” Reeve grumbled, more resigned than annoyed, “you were right.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Veld replied, not looking up from his paper work.

“We _had_ to let him go free!” Reeve insisted.

“Never said you shouldn’t.” Not in so many words, at any rate.

“Veld you _saw_ what he was like with the regular troops! We don’t even have any SOLDIERs left to put him with! It was a disaster!”

Veld did not disagree. Putting Nero in with the military, among his fellow Deepground survivors, had seemed like a good idea at the time. All SOLDIERs could fight, it was what they were bred for. However, they had not counted on Nero’s training being so...aggressive. Sephiroth, Genesis, and Angeal had all been legends in their own time. Each had proved to be virtually unbeatable, as well as deeply disturbed and harboring a vicious streak that had resulted in the deaths of hundreds of innocent people. Nero had been no different. The first time he’d been put in the training simulator with a dozen other recruits, there had been blood on the walls. No one had died, thank gods, but everyone except Nero had sustained grievous, if not life-threatening injuries. The sergeant had been beside himself. Nero had simply been confused. His words still haunted Veld’s memory:

“But...it’s training,” Nero had said, genuinely at a loss. “Only one person can win.”

His tone had been that of a child who’d had the rules changed on him halfway through the game. They’d left him to stew in the brig while the soldiers were treated and the commanding officers tried to sort out what to do next. There had been Deepground troops in with the WRO regulars, and their testimonies had varied wildly. Half were terrified of Nero; convinced he was not actually human, but some sort of mutant abomination constructed in the Deepground laboratories. He was rumored to eat human flesh and drink blood. Others, however, smiled fondly as they described how he’d kept them alive through his kindness. He was easily the nicest of the Tsviets, with a soft heart beneath the mako suit. None of it added up, and only left them all more confused than when they’d begun.

They shoved him in front of one of the shrinks next, hoping to get a more solid read on him. Nero’s personality was shy and a bit naive in the office; cold and ruthless in the simulator. Veld had not seen such polarity in one person more than a handful of times. Strangely enough, Nero was deemed stable, if heavily conditioned by his Deepground training. However, it was not recommended that he continue with the military. Which left Nero out of a job, and the WRO out of options.

Despite the training fiasco, Nero’s actions had not been premeditated, and he’d seemed remorseful. The stilted explanation he’d given afterwards had revealed his thought processes, but raised a dozen other horrible questions that had no answers. Or rather, there were answers, but no one wanted to consider them. In the end, all they could do was turn him loose to seek his fortune out in the wide world. A child who’d never known the sun, had not been out of Midgar, probably not even above ground prior to this, all alone in an alien city. Even as he’d watched him go, Veld had had a grim and foreboding feeling that they’d be seeing Nero again.

He was not wrong.

The call came in, oddly, at daybreak. Shots fired. Three officers down, and a backup squad was on its way, but would probably need more help. A tall man in black had attacked a patrol unit. Thirty seconds later, Veld’s PHS rang. The Turk assigned to keep an eye out for Nero filled him in. He wasn’t 100% clear on how it had started, but Nero and the WRO officers were engaged in a firefight.

The WRO officers were losing.

Grumbling a curse, Veld called down the hall to the bedroom: “VALENTINE! WE GOTTA GO!”

Vincent, bless him, did not question, just grabbed his gun and jacket and ran after him.

\--

The squad had chased Nero from shadow to shadow not into a dark alley, which would have allowed him to escape, but out onto the main drag. Traffic lights blinked, street lamps still shone, store marquees glimmered, and worst of all was the rising sun turning the weak gray light stronger and more brilliant with every passing moment. Nero had no weapon, but that didn’t seem to be an issue. Two officers lay sprawled and bleeding on the pavement. Shots rang out, but none of them touched Nero. The surviving shadows were too small and too faint for him to disappear into them, but allowed a vague sort of cover from the hail of lead and magic.

Veld watched, breath caught in horror, as one of the WRO troops broke away and tried to circle around Nero to drive him back toward the others. Nero dove at him, long body moving almost too fast to track. Veld opened his mouth, but another voice split the cacophony of gunfire and explosions.

“ _NERO!_ ” Vincent cried, charging forward, not even reaching for his gun. “STAND DOWN! _STAND DOWN!_ ”

At once Nero stopped, freezing in place. A stray shot echoed, the last to be fired as Vincent rushed into the fray. Nero flinched as it struck him in the shoulder. Several people recoiled as fluid, thick and black as tar, oozed from the wound. Although Vincent had ordered him to stand down, he had not told him to stand still. As Vincent ran toward him, Nero cast about desperately for a shadow large enough to hide in. The sharply slanting rays of the sun had just begun to cast shadows as black and narrow as Nero was himself. A public mailbox provided a puddle of darkness just wide enough for his lanky body, and Nero lunged for it. He might be inhumanly fast, but so was Vincent, and Nero cried out- in surprise rather than pain- as Vincent’s arms latched around him just as they touched the shadow.

“That’s as far as you go,” Vincent told him not ungently. “It’s over. It’s okay.”

The squad commander gave the order to lower weapons, and Veld stepped forward. Nero sagged in Vincent’s arms, the fight as well as all his energy going out of him at once. Up close, the mako suit hung loose where it had previously been skin-tight. His long hair was dirty and matted. Duct tape had been applied to his suit at elbows and knees and a few other places. Whatever Nero had been doing to keep himself alive the last few weeks, it had barely been enough.

He didn’t fight when the squad commander cuffed him, or even speak as they loaded him into the van. Defeat and fear lingered like a fading scent all around him. This time he would be charged, but whether or not he would agree to stay put would remain to be seen. Because of the bullet wound, they would stop at the hospital before booking him. Vincent got into the van next to Nero. No one questioned him. It was close quarters in the back, so Veld stayed to clean up the mess. Valentine could handle one scared kid.

\--

“You okay?” Vincent asked softly. Nero, crammed against him, did not answer. Sitting with one’s hands cuffed behind one’s back was awkward at best. Nero seemed to be having a hard time keeping his balance, so Vincent leaned against him to help him stay upright. Nero inhaled, sharp and ragged, the sound oddly like a sob. No tears welled up in his unearthly black-and-gold eyes, but he shivered where he sat.

“S’okay,” Vincent assured him, lightly rubbing his back with on hand. “It’s over. I’ll stay with you, don’t worry.”

Nero made a noise of assent, mask crackling. Behind it, he was breathing hard, probably still riding the end of the adrenaline rush. It would take a few minutes to fade. By the time they got to the hospital he should be fine.

When they pulled up to the hospital, however, Nero was still trembling and a cold sweat had broken out over his exposed skin.

“C’mon,” Vincent said, hooking a hand under Nero’s arm and pulling him to his feet. Nero lurched upright and promptly staggered into him. Vincent almost collapsed with him as Nero dropped to his knees and began to gag. Purple dripped through the vents in his mask.

“Nero!” Vincent cried, not sure what to do. Off to his right, the ambulances had arrived with the wounded officers. Doctors and nurses streamed out of the building to hurry their patients inside.

“Hey!” Vincent shouted to them. “ _Hey!_ I need help over here! Something’s wrong!”

One of the doctors detached himself from the group and rushed over. Crouching down, he quickly went over Nero; feeling his forehead, testing his pulse, and peering into his eyes. Nero’s gray-white skin had taken on a ghostly pallor, and indigo beads of sweat stood out starkly in contrast. His golden eyes glowed bright and brilliant, pupils blown so wide it was arguable if he could see what was going on in front of him. The doctor eyed the purple smear on his fingers with some alarm.

“What _is_ this stuff?” he asked.

“Stagnant mako,” Vincent replied. The doctor looked up sharply, alarmed. Wiping his hand on the leg of his scrubs, he nodded.

“Mako poisoning,” he announced. “Let’s get him inside.”

Between the two of them, they half carried Nero into the clinic. The triage room buzzed with the controlled chaos of doctors and nurses trying desperately to keep people alive. Together, they got Nero onto a gurney. The doctor made to remove Nero’s mask, but Vincent grabbed his arm.

“No! He can’t breathe without that.”

“Oh,” the doctor let go at once. “Thanks for the warning. What’s his name?”

“Nero.”

“Nero?” the doctor steadied Nero’s lolling head with one hand. “Nero, can you tell me what happened?”

Garbled sound found its way out of the mask, but little else.

“Tell me, Nero,” the doctor pressed, voice calm and gentle but eyes intense as he studied Nero’s reaction. “What happened to you? How did you get like this?”

Nero tried to respond, but all he could manage was a drunken moan. The noise ended in gagging and the doctor reached to grab a kidney-shaped basin. Rather than have him vomit through his mask again, Vincent yanked hard on the straps holding it in place, snapping them, and lifting the mask just enough for Nero to retch purple into the basin. Vincent couldn’t help wrinkling his nose at the reek of soured mako.

Under his breath, the doctor swore. “What’s he been doing, drinking this stuff?”

“Possibly,” Vincent allowed. “If you really want to know, he was shot, though obviously that’s not the top priority.”

Nero’s eyes had rolled back in his head, only the black sclera showing, making a death’s head of his pale face.

“Later!” the doctor snapped. “Keep him awake! He falls asleep, he may not wake up.”

Fear shivered cold and restrictive through Vincent’s chest. Reaching, he lightly slapped Nero’s cheek- or tried to, the respirator was in the way. “Nero, stay with me. What happened? How did you get this way?”

The doctor was struggling with the sleeve of Nero’s mako suit. “How the hell do I get this off?”

“Try rolling it?” Vincent suggested.

The doctor set down the pair of scissors he’d retrieved from the side table and hastily rolled Nero’s sleeve up like a stocking. The underside of the fabric was soft and oozing, deep indigo liquid running from it at the slightest pressure.

“The hell?” the doctor remarked. “This is saturated in stagnant mako. No _wonder_ he overdosed.”

“He’s a SOLDIER,” Vincent told him. “He wears this thing instead of getting injections.”

“So if it’s not the suit…” The doctor grumbled a curse and fumbled with the IV needle. “Dammit, I can’t get a vein.”

Vincent didn’t see how this was possible. Nero’s veins showed through his translucent skin in thin black lines, as if he were carved from a block of marble and not made of flesh and blood. Nero whimpered as the needle went in.

“There,” the doctor said with some satisfaction. “Try to get him to talk and watch his eyes. Keep him awake until his pupils retract to their normal size.”

Vincent had no idea what counted as “normal” for Nero, but tried hard to keep the boy’s attention while the doctor went about his business.

“Where did you go after you left?” Vincent asked. Nero mumbled something that sounded like “home”. The only problem was that Deepground was mostly a smoking crater now.

“Is there anything left of it?”

The answer this time was non-committal, something approaching “kind of”. Perhaps there were areas yet deeper below the surface that had not been destroyed.

“Did you find your siblings?”

Nero shook his head and promptly brought up more mako. Vincent grabbed the basin for him to spit in.

“Did you try to drink stagnant mako?”

That might have been a nod, or just lurching as he retched again.

“Should he be doing this?” Vincent asked, trying to balance the basin with one hand and hold up Nero with the other.

“He’s oversaturated,” the doctor replied, hanging a second IV bag. “As long as he’s not bringing up blood.”

“Right.”

Nero seemed to be done for the moment, and Vincent eased him back onto the pillows, coughing and gasping. He thought Nero’s pupils might be a little smaller. The doctor was still fussing over him, now drawing blood with a syringe. Vincent assumed it was blood. The fluid leaving Nero’s body and filling up the tube was black.

“We still have lot of SOLDIER testing kits,” the doctor said. “I’ll have the lab run this just to be on the safe side.”

“Do you know what’s wrong with him?” Vincent asked. “How does a SOLDIER even _get_ mako poisoning?”

“Was he always this thin?” the doctor tugged at the too-wide sleeve of Nero’s mako suit.

Vincent thought about how lean Nero had been when he’d first been brought in, and how emaciated he was now. “...no.”

“There’s a couple of instances from the Wutai war where SOLDIERs let themselves run too low,” the doctor explained. “Sure it’s possible for them to go for days without eating or sleeping, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. The mako and Jenova in their systems allowed them to heal at an accelerated pace, but in case of deprivation, all that meant was that the damage took longer to occur, not that it didn’t happen at all. Eventually their bodies couldn’t keep up and in order to maintain the healing, started breaking down fat and muscle just to keep going. It’s starvation, just more dramatic. Everything’s shock-and-awe with SOLDIERs.”

Vincent thought about making a cutting remark, then paused to really look at the man. Younger than himself, yet older than Nero, it was entirely possible he’d seen action during the decade-long bloodbath. Thinking better of it, he kept his mouth shut.

“You...SOLDIER…?” Nero gasped.

The doctor smiled. “Nah, just a medic. 115th. You serve? You look kinda young, though Shinra sent Sephiroth overseas when he was just a kid.”

Carefully, Nero shook his head. It left him cross-eyed, but he didn’t gag. “Never been outside,” he slurred.

The doctor peered into Nero’s face, squinting at his eyes. “You tired, kid?”

“Yeah.”

“Take a nap then,” he patted Nero on the shoulder. “You can have pancakes when you wake up.”

“Okay,” Nero agreed and promptly dropped off.

“I thought you said he might not wake up!” Vincent protested.

“Easy,” the doctor made a soothing gesture with both hands. “His pupils have retracted and he was speaking actual words and interacting. He’s come in far enough from the edge that he isn’t likely to fall off. If we’d let him go to sleep while strung out, there was a possibility his sense of himself and the here-and-now would have been compromised. He could have lost himself to the mako in his bloodstream. Essentially, he’d to return to the planet without actually dying. His body would still be here, living and breathing, but his personality and memories would be gone.”

Vincent couldn’t help the pang of horror, and open-mouthed grimace that accompanied it. “But that won’t happen? You’re sure of it.”

“It won’t,” the doctor promised. “He’s just dehydrated and undernourished. I’m guessing he started drinking mako because he thought it might stop the hunger. If we can balance his system and bring him up to a decent weight again, he’ll be fine. I’m sure of it.”

Vincent nodded cautiously. “I’ll hold you to that.

\--

By the time Veld tracked down Nero and Vincent at the hospital, Nero had been stabilized and admitted. The boy was asleep, an IV in his arm and a blood pressure clamp still on his finger. Vincent looked up as Veld walked in, accompanied by two burly orderlies who proceeded to fasten restraints around Nero’s arms, legs and torso. Vincent pulled Veld aside.

“Is that necessary?” said Vincent, a little white around the eyes. 

“What do you think?” said Veld. “He’s going to be charged with two counts of murder and multiple counts of attempted murder as soon as he regains consciousness. Can’t have a murder suspect disappearing from his bed.”

Veld took Vincent by the arm to walk him down the hall, away from the sight of the leather straps. Outside the room, two WRO troopers stood, one to either side of the door. 

“Guards, too?” Vincent said, eyeing them. 

“They’re not here to keep him in, they’re here to keep everyone but the medical staff _out_ while he’s asleep.”

“...For his own safety. I see.” Vincent glanced back at Nero. “Only two dead?”

“So far. That could change. Several are in critical condition.”

Vincent sighed, glancing back at Nero. “I don’t understand. Why would he attack a patrol unit at random?”

“Revenge? Terrorism?”

“You don’t believe that,” Vincent hissed. 

Veld reached past him and closed the door to Nero’s room. “Carry on,” he told the two guards, and moved past them, Vincent at his side.

“The motive really doesn’t matter, Vince. There’s no question that he did kill two men and severely injure several others. We turned him loose, and this is the result. Now we’ve got to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Well, something doesn’t add up.” Vincent followed Veld out of the main doors. “Who’s been taking statements?”

“Judit and her crew.”

“I want to read them when they’re done.”

“Why? It’s pretty cut and dried, Vince. Why do you care?”

“Because...He’s just a kid, Veld. A kid who came out of a fucked-up program, who can’t even keep himself fed, and has nowhere else to go. I just want to make sure he gets a fair shake.”

Veld considered that, and the numerous ways it could go wrong. Once Vincent dove into this situation, he wouldn’t back out or back down, and all for a stranger, a rogue SOLDIER who might, possibly, share his DNA.

On the other hand, it _didn’t_ make sense that Nero had attacked a well-armed patrol for no reason. Veld had already heard a couple of the statements, and one man in particular had insisted that Nero had struck first, coming out of the shadows to blind-side his unit as they passed an alley.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go talk to Judit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More playing with the mechanics of mako and what mako poisoning truly is.  
> In the original game, the doctor in Mideel mentions that some people never recover from over-exposure to mako. We took that and ran with it.


	6. He Said, She Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veld is not the head of the Turks. Pretty much everyone chooses to ignore this. Including Tseng.  
> How do all of Vincent's problems end up becoming his?
> 
> Nero is in deep doo-doo. Vincent takes it upon himself to help him shovel.

Although calm and professional as only a veteran Turk could be, Veld had known his kids long enough to tell when they were harried or exhausted. Despite her unflappable demeanor, Judit was- to Veld’s eyes, anyway- ready to punch something.

“It could have been worse,” she commented, handing him the folder. “Two dead, three wounded, the rest thoroughly unnerved.”

Veld snorted. There were days he missed her dry sense of humor. “The short version?”

“Split right down the middle,” she said. Veld looked up from the papers and into her eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“We have six surviving witnesses, one of which isn’t in any shape to give a statement. I’ll have him interviewed once he’s stable enough to talk. I also had two others step forward who weren’t involved, but wanted to give testimony on Nero’s character.”

Veld blinked. “Who?”

“Dixon and Jameson.”

“The patrol that brought him in the first time?”

Judit nodded. “Apparently Dixon knew him prior to the fall of Deepground. Said he was a good guy, comparatively speaking anyway. She didn’t think it would be like Nero to strike first.”

“Were they an item down there?” A woman pleading for leniency for a man almost always pointed to a relationship of some kind, either familial or romantic. Nero had mentioned looking for his siblings, but the names he’d given were Weiss, Rosso, Azul, and Argento. Veld didn’t know Dixon’s first name, but doubted it was anything as exotic as that. Still, if he’d had a girlfriend…

Judit shook her head. “I doubt it. I asked her what her relationship to Nero was and she just gave me this weird look. Said ‘I was a Jane’, as if that explained everything. Maybe it does. I have no idea why her name would be so important. The given name on her paperwork is ‘Amy’.”

Veld got the feeling they were missing something; a subtlety of language or culture that had the potential to be rather important. “Valentine wants to review the reports. He’ll probably want to question the witnesses himself as well.”

Judit blinked but saluted, used to her superior’s peculiarities. “Sir.”

\--

_Excerpt (1):_

Interviewer: Judit, Sector Supervisor. Officer: H. Thompson.

HT: I saw this guy sitting on the roof, ma’am.   
Judit: Just sitting there?  
HT: Yeah, at first. Couldn’t see him that well cause he was kinda sitting in the shadow of the chimney.   
Judit: And then what?  
HT: Well, Chen says, what are you doing up there? The guy says, I’m not doing anything, sir. And Chen says, you get down from there, you got no business being up there.  
Judit: And did he?  
HT: Well, he stood up, and the light...the light was behind us, ma’am, and the guy puts his hand up to shade his eyes, and just then Avery says, hey, I know that guy! He’s from Deepground, he’s dangerous.   
Judit: I see. Go on.  
HT: So the guy says, yes, sir, and he….well, he took a step backward, into the shadow? And then he...just appeared on the ground in front of us, like, walked right out of the darkness where the light hadn’t reached yet. So then Avery says, that’s him, that’s Sable, he’s crazy. And he draws and fires.  
Judit: He drew first?  
HT: Yes, ma’am.  
Judit: Thompson, did you see Sable draw a weapon?  
HT: No, ma’am.

_Excerpt (2):_

Interviewer: Morley, Lieutenant, Sector Two. Officer: D. Carroll.

Morley: Tell me what you saw, Carroll.  
DC: This guy just came at us out of the alley, sir.   
Morley: Came at you how?  
DC: He ran out and just started stabbing. He got Avery first, then Chen.  
Morley: Stabbing? He was armed?  
DC: Yes, sir, he had this long black sword.  
Morley: Just to be clear, Carroll, did you or any of your fellow officers fire at or strike the guy first?  
DC: No, sir, we did not.

_Excerpt (3):_

Interviewer: Judit, Sector Supervisor. Officer: I. Taki

Judit: So what started the fight, Taki?  
IT: I’m not sure, ma’am.  
Judit: Not sure? You were there. What did you see?  
IT: I...didn’t really see what started it. This guy was up on the roof of Carson’s Dairy, and….and then he was down on the ground. [pause] Not really sure how it started, ma’am.  
Judit: Two people were killed, Taki. Did you see how?  
IT: [hesitates] He...I think he just...kicked them in the head, ma’am. Sable, I mean.  
Judit: He kicked them hard enough to draw blood?  
IT: Yes, ma’am, I believe so.

_Excerpt (4):_

Interviewer: Constance, Patrol Captain, Sector Two: Officer: P. Danzig.

Constance: Danzig, describe what you saw.   
PD: I saw a man on the roof of the dairy, ma’am.  
Constance: What was he doing?   
PD: I’m not sure.  
Constance: But you saw him up there?  
PD: Yes, ma’am, I did.   
Constance: And then what?  
PD: Well, Chen or Avery, I’m not sure which, tells him to come down. So he does.  
Constance: And what did he do next?  
PD: He says, am I in trouble, sir? And Avery says something, I couldn’t hear what - I was at the back - and then he draws and fires at the guy.  
Constance: Did the guy fire first?  
PD: No, I don’t think he had a gun or anything.  
Constance: A knife? A sword?   
PD: No, nothing.  
Constance: Danzig, did you see the man make any threatening moves?  
PD: Not at that time, ma’am.  
Constance: And did Avery’s shot hit him?  
PD: No, he missed. And he fired again, and...that one came close. And then guy just...went crazy.   
Constance: How so?  
PD: He just came at us like a berserker, ma’am. Took out Avery and Chen right away.  
Constance: And how did the rest of you respond?  
PD: We...we fired at him, ma’am. We couldn’t hit him, he moved too fast. 

_Excerpt (5):_

Interviewer: Judit, Sector Superviser. Officer: L. Hawke.

Judit: Hawke, did you see who struck first?  
LH: Yes, ma’am, it was that guy, that Sable.   
Judit: You’re sure?  
LH: Yes, ma’am! Saw him come out of the alley screaming like a crazy person, and he just jumped Avery and got him by the throat and--  
Judith: Easy. Take a breath.  
LH: Yes, ma’am, thank you. [pause] Anyway, he got Avery down on the ground, and Avery was bleeding badly.  
Judit: And what did the rest of you do?  
LH: We discharged our weapons, ma’am.  
Judit: Did Avery fire his gun at any time?  
LH: He tried, but Sable was already on him by then.  
Judit: Uh huh, and then what?  
LH: Well, he got Chen next, I think he kicked him in the gut and then in the head. Or maybe he had a knife, it was hard to tell.  
Judit: You couldn’t tell if he had a weapon or not?  
LH: It...happened so fast, ma’am. No, I’m not sure how he did it, but they’re dead. He killed them both.

\---

Vincent tossed the sheaf of papers onto his desk. “Gahh, are they all like this?”

“Yes, sir,” said Judit. Gesturing to the folder he’d set aside, she added, “There’s a few more, just as contradictory. I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what to tell you.”

Vincent removed his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Well, first, could you stop calling me _sir?_ Veld is ‘sir’. Just ‘Vincent’ is fine, or even ‘Valentine’, I don’t care.”

“Sure, Vincent. Sorry, old habits.”

“Thanks. So, what next? Is there anyone who hasn’t been interviewed?”

“There’s one in a medically-induced coma. Castleton. They’re waiting for the brain swelling to go down before they try to wake him up.”

Vincent winced. “Is that it?”

“Except for Sable.”

“Nero,” Vincent snapped. “I don’t think he likes the name Sable.”

Judit blinked. “Okay. Except for Nero, everyone who lived through the fight’s been interviewed. Will you be doing that one?”

Vincent stuffed the transcripts back into the folder. “Yes.”

\---

It wasn’t much to go on, Vincent reflected, as he looked over the reports. Most of the survivor’s testimony was nebulous at best. Only one seemed to put Nero in the clear, the others all agreed that he had struck first. It was possible that once Nero had begun an offensive- regardless of who had fired the first shot- it might be hard for him to stop. Once triggered, some soldiers entered a sort of berserker zone and would not stop until they were the only ones still standing. Given Nero’s training, had he and Veld not intervened, probably none of the patrols would have been left alive.

One name in particular kept coming up in the reports: Avery. Reviewing his file, the facts were sparse, but telling. He’d been a small-time thug who’d eventually landed in Corel prison. There had been rumors about prisoners being transferred out of the facility and into Shinra’s secret laboratories. Apparently those labs had been located in Deepground. Avery had served as part of Deepground’s infantry with Nero as his commander. Out of both fairness and curiosity, Vincent looked over Dixon’s record too.

She had also been in Nero’s unit, but her opinion of him was much better than Avery’s. Dixon had been an orphan scavenged from the street at a young age. She had been in Deepground most of her adult life. Perhaps she simply had a longer perspective, and had known what true suffering was, compared to Avery who had only been in Deepground a few months prior to its collapse. The only way to find out was to ask her directly.

“I can’t say who shot first, Sir. I wasn’t there,” Dixon said upon interview. “Only I don’t think Nero would attack first. It’s not like him. Never knew him to be the first to throw a punch. He’d only retaliate if he felt threatened.”

“And you know this because…?” Vincent drawled.

“Spent fifteen years in Deepground, Sir. Never been in the simulator with him myself, thank Gaia, but I watched plenty of times. He never fired a shot until somebody came after him.”

“So you were in Deepground a long time?”

Dixon nodded. “Got kidnapped when I was about twelve. Some women can handle SOLDIER treatments, some can’t. I was one of the lucky ones. S’why they made me a JANE an’ not a Mother.”

Vincent blinked at the terminology. “Come again?”

“Sorry, Sir. ‘JANE’ stands for ‘Jenova Augmented Natal Exemption’,” she explained. “If you can’t have kids, you become part of the military. If you can, you become a Mother. I hear the Mothers were treated well, best food, posh accommodations, that kind of thing.”

“So JANEs are female troops?”

“Yessir.”

“And you were under Nero’s command?”

“Yessir.”

“What did you think of him?”

Dixson smiled. “He was nice. For Deepground, anyway. I was scared of him at first, everyone is. Was. Sure, he looks like Hades incarnate, but underneath, he’s a good guy.”

“How do you know that?” Vincent genuinely wanted to know.

Dixon was quiet for a moment; chewed her lip as she thought about what to say, and how to say it.

“He never came after us girls. Us and the little guys, we were at the bottom of the heap. Lot of nasty characters down there. If you couldn’t keep ‘em off your case yourself, no one was gonna do it for you. He didn’t put up with none of that in his ranks. Can’t speak for elsewhere, but if he caught anyone, he’d let ‘em know.”

“How so?”

“Seen him snap one guy’s neck. Threw his body into the shadows. Nobody ever said anything about it, but plenty saw.”

Vincent blinked at that, unsure how to take this particular revelation. “Snapped his neck?” he echoed.

Dixon nodded. “I would have too if I’d caught ‘em in the act, but I’m not big enough for that. It sets an example for the other guys: you try to force yourself on somebody, you don’t get a second chance to ask nicely.”

“Was he always so…” the word that sprang to mind was ‘vicious’, but that didn’t seem appropriate for the boy lying half-starved and under guard in a hospital bed.

“He don’t put up with no nonsense, if that’s what you mean,” Dixon supplied. “He wouldn’t be commander if he weren’t strict. He’s fair, though. Felt lucky to be under him, if I had to be there.”

Not knowing what else to do, Vincent nodded.

“He wouldn’t’a fired first,” Dixon went on. “He’s not like that. Please, Sir, you’ll take that into account, won’t you?”

“Yes. Of course.” Hers wasn’t the only statement he ought to consider.

\--

Nero was still tied down, but awake and looking better despite his misadventure. As an added measure, a security camera that Vincent did not remember had been mounted near the ceiling. The gunshot had been little more than a graze, and had healed on its own before the doctor could even apply a Band-Aid. Someone had very considerately patched his suit with electrical tape.

“Sir,” Nero said, nodding his head by way of a salute.

“At ease, kid,” Vincent told him. Nero leaned back on the pillows ever so slightly.

“I’m sorry about the restraints,” Vincent said. “That...wasn’t my idea, but it’s not my decision. Do you feel up to answering some questions?”

Nero nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Vincent glanced at the camera mounted on the wall above the door. “By the way, you’re being recorded. That’s standard with someone who’s being held pending charges. Just so you know.”

“Understood, Sir.”

“So, what were you doing in Sector Two last night?”

“Watching the sun come up,” Nero said quietly. “Before that, looking for Weiss and Rosso. Do you want a full account of my movements that night, Sir?”

“Sure, why don’t you summarize it for me?”

“Yes, Sir.” Nero took a deep breath. “Upon release of WRO custody I resumed searching for my brother and sister in both what’s left of Deepground and the surrounding area. So far, I have not been successful. I can’t bear the sun, so I do my searching at night. I don’t believe anyone has seen me. I have scavenged discarded food. I haven’t frightened any more pizza delivery persons.

“On the night in question, I was sitting on top of a building, watching the sun come up. I was planning to go to sleep immediately afterward. Someone hailed me from the street. I recognized the individual as one of my subordinates from Deepground; infantryman 465217 Avery. He asked me to come down to street level, so I did. Upon facing me, he made a number of false accusations which I denied. He then fired a shot at me. I was able to dodge. He then fired a second shot. I engaged and killed him. His squad then opened fire on me, and I retaliated in order to defend myself. I killed one other officer before you and Agent Dragoon intervened. That is all, Sir.”

If Vincent had ever had reason to doubt Nero had had a military background, he didn’t now. He’d heard long-time Turks deliver less succinct and cohesive reports.

“Thank you. So it’s your contention that Avery fired first? You didn’t threaten him or try to strike him?”

“No, Sir,” Nero shook his head. “I had no personal grudge against him. I was tired and hungry. I was not looking for a fight.” A pause. “May I ask a question, Sir?”

“Go ahead.”

“Am I to be dissect-- Excuse me. Am I to be examined?” he nodded at the restraints.

Vincent blinked. Surely he hadn’t heard what he thought he’d heard? “Well, you’ll be examined by the doctor, certainly, to be sure you’ve recovered. Seems to me you have. What did you think we were….? Never mind. Let’s go back to last night. 

“Did it occur to you that you should surrender at any point? The second patrol took a few minutes to get there. You could have left, or surrendered to the survivors of the first patrol. Why didn’t you do either?”

Nero’s attention drew inward, evidently replaying events in his mind. The monitors wavered, betraying his distress. Nero looked up at them, briefly casting the machines a resentful look for revealing his weakness.

“There is no such thing as surrender,” he said quietly, eyes downcast. “You fight or you die. I was not ready to die.”

“It….doesn’t quite work that way up here,” said Vincent. “Surrender is an acceptable choice. Sometimes it’s the smarter one. You also could have left the area. I know you can use your shadows to hide, and to move from place to place. Why not just run?”

Nero looked at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted a second head, or begun speaking ancient Cetran. Although he could not see it, Vincent got the impression that behind the mask, Nero’s mouth was opening and closing but producing no sound.

“They fired on me,” he repeated, tone helpless. “The shadows were too weak and getting weaker. I… I tried to run, then you grabbed me…” If Vincent didn’t know better, he might have thought the boy was going to cry. Taking a deep breath that crackled through his respirator, Nero visibly composed himself.

“They fired on me. I reacted in self-defense. That is all.”

Self-defense was, of course, the oldest excuse in the book, but Vincent didn’t think the boy was lying. He’d been roaming around Midgar for the last couple of weeks without harming anyone; why start now? Unfortunately, it wasn’t within his authority to decide that Nero was innocent. He _had_ killed two people.

“Thank you. There might be more questions later, but right now, just rest. Is there anything you need?”

“Is...is there any news of Weiss and Rosso?” he asked, voice small and painfully hopeful.

“No one answering to those names has been identified,” said Vincent. “But we don’t really know what they look like. If you can give me a description of the people you’re looking for, we can check with Rescue and Recovery. I can’t...I mean, it’s possible they might be among the dead.”

Nero flinched as if struck. “No,” he insisted. “No, they’re both Tsviets, bigger and stronger than me. They were given light mako. They’re fine, I’m sure of it. Weiss is almost as tall as me, but twice as wide. He’s strong, fair-skinned, messy white hair, blue eyes. He’s my brother, but he doesn’t look anything like me. Rosso’s beautiful. About a head shorter than me, with curly red hair to her shoulders and golden eyes. She always wears full armor because…” Here he trailed off. “They’re not dead. They can’t be. There’s no way I could survive and not them.”

The vivid descriptions rang a bell for Vincent, but it faded almost as soon as he realized it. Something about a young man with white hair….Dammit, it was gone. Chaos had taken control at Deepground, leaving Vincent behind a wall in his own mind, unable to make decisions or notice much detail. He’d have to think about it, but gods knew if that would help.

“Noted,” he said to Nero. “Don’t give up hope yet. There were a lot of survivors and some of them are still being treated. They might be in the quarantine area, or still unconscious.”

“I will hope for my brother and sister,” Nero said, in the flat military tone he’d used earlier. “Should I hope for myself? Will my life be required for the two men I killed, or will I only be punished?”

“There might be punishment,” Vincent admitted. “I’m no lawyer, and I don’t know how things worked in Deepground, but here we don’t execute for every death. It depends on the circumstances. Usually corporal punishment is required only in cases of premeditated murder...things like that.”

Nero’s account squared with those of the patrollers who said Nero had made no threats. Maybe he’d have to have a talk with the ones who insisted Nero had attacked without provocation. He looked forward to it.

He wasn’t quite sure why he was going to so much trouble to reassure Nero. The kid had snapped, killed two people, and badly injured a number of others. And yet Vincent still felt as though Nero was not the monster he was being made out to be. 

Nero nodded quietly, some of the tension going out of him. “I will await sentence for punishment.”

“You’ll be taken to a holding cell once the doctor releases you. You aren’t going to stay here in the hospital.” An idea occurred to him, and he ran with it. “If you cooperate, I’ll see what I can find out about Weiss and Rosso. How’s that?”

The boy brightened a little at this. Vincent could almost see the small smile hidden behind the mask.

“Yes, Sir. I will cooperate.”

As Vincent left, the camera lense caught his eye again. Damn, why hadn’t he thought of that before? There were security cameras throughout Edge. If there was one near the alley where the fight had gone down, they might be able to find out who was telling the truth after all. 

With that in mind, he headed for the Municipal Security office.


	7. Translation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent and Veld don't speak Deepground.  
> Nero doesn't speak Surface.  
> Perhaps it's time they brought in a translator.

Vincent would have liked to be smug about the security camera footage. The dairy building did indeed have a rickety old security camera pointed at the loading docks. The altercation between Nero and the night patrol had happened just inside its range. Although the footage was grainy black and white, it showed clearly all the proof they needed. Dixon had been right. Avery had shot first. How he had missed Nero at such close range was a miracle as well as a mystery. While this cleared Nero of one charge, there were still others to sort out. Whether or not he’d escape punishment entirely was not a given. He would remain in the WRO brig until he was cleared or sentenced. Which meant Vincent only had so much time to figure out what to _do_ with him if the charges were dropped.

Their first attempt to release Nero into the wild had ended badly, and there was no reason to think the same thing wouldn’t happen again. He’d either end up killing someone else, overdosing on mako, or just starving to death- possibly all three. It didn’t seem fair. Nero might be a living weapon trained to kill, but he didn’t _feel_ like one. The problem was, Vincent could not have even said why. Gut instincts were usually trustworthy, but it would take more than his stomach to convince Veld that they should find a place for the poor kid.

Part of the problem was that Nero’s behavior made no sense. The shrink had cleared him. Nero wasn’t mentally unstable, but he had been heavily conditioned. Admittedly it wasn’t the WRO’s responsibility to reprogram him. He didn’t seem to fully appreciate what was happening to him. Vincent thought back to the hospital, and Nero’s slip of the tongue when he’d asked about the restraints. The boy had thought he was going to be dissected. Vincent shuddered, not wanting to think about what might have prompted such an assumption. However, it proved his point. Nero was interpreting his situation differently than everyone around him. What they needed was a translator, but who among the refugees could interpret for Nero? Most of them were terrified of him. No one would want to come within fifty feet of his cell.

An idea clicked to life in Vincent’s mind as memory pinged.

Or would they?

Fumbling with his PHS, Vincent hurried from his office. Texting would warn her he was coming, and if she wasn’t in her office, he would go to meet with her and share his idea.

\--

“Nero’s _alive?_ ” The look on Shelke’s face was a mix of disbelief and joy. To be honest, Vincent had not expected such a reaction.

“Where is he?” she went on. “Is he okay?”

“He’s...fine,” Vincent answered. “Down in the brig.” Shelke stared at him, eyes wide. Vincent sighed. “It’s a long story.”

“O-kay…” she drawled. Vincent did his best to give her the short version, leaving out some of the finer details, like the bits about Nero starving and suffering a case of mako poisoning.

“We can prove that he didn’t start the fight,” Vincent finished, “but I don’t know if it will be enough. He’s dangerous in a way that most of the refugees aren’t. They might have been SOLDIERs but they’re not Tsviets. You were. I was hoping you could help.”

Shelke blinked. “Me? How could I help?”

“You...speak his language,” Vincent said, for lack of a better way to put it. “I don’t think he really gets what’s happening, or what kinds of consequences he’s facing. I know we’re missing things whenever he tries to tell us something, which admittedly isn’t often. Even if you just sat and watched on the other side of the glass while he’s being questioned I’m sure it would be a big help.”

“Okay,” she agreed. Vincent blinked. He hadn’t thought it would be that easy. “Can I see him? Now?”

Vincent smiled. “Sure.”

\--

“Nero!” Shelke’s smile was wide and radiant as she entered the interrogation room. Nero was not cuffed, but had his arms crossed over his chest as was his habit. Upon her entrance, he stood up and stared.

“Shelke!”

She darted toward him and then stopped short, clasping her hands behind her back. Her smile had vanished, or rather, it was hiding, just barely there, tugging at the corners of her mouth. Nero lowered himself to his knees so that they were nearly eye-level. It was impossible to tell if he were smiling or not, but his eyes spoke volumes.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he whispered, voice breaking. Shelke stepped forward, not quite into his space, and inclined her head. Nero mirrored the gesture, leaning toward her and lowering his head until their foreheads touched. They might have been sharing a secret, but neither of them spoke, just held the pose for a space of a few heartbeats before each retreating to their own space.

“Are the others with you?” Nero asked.

Shelke shook her head. “No, sorry. They’re not with you?”

“No,” Nero said sadly. “I can’t look for them from in here. I’m worried.”

“It'll be okay,” she assured him. “We’ll find them. We just need to get you out of here first. How the heck did you manage this anyway?”

Even behind the mask, Nero’s expression was sheepish. “Eh, you know me. If there’s a way to screw it up, I’ll find it.”

“Tell me?”

After a moment, Nero nodded. “Okay.”

Rising to his feet, he went over to the bench pushed against the wall opposite the window of one-way glass. Standing, he was more than twice Shelke’s size. Although they were the same age, Shelke barely stood taller than his elbow. Hands still gripping his shoulders, Nero sat down on the bench. Shelke hopped up and sat down next to him. There was plenty of room, but she parked herself close enough that her arm and thigh touched his. For a moment they just sat there, saying nothing, not even looking at each other. On the other side of the glass, Veld crossed his own arms over his chest in thought.

“What even was that?” Vincent asked, not truly expecting an answer. “She was so excited when I told her. Now it’s like...I don’t know.”

“It’s weird,” Veld agreed. “It’s like they’re afraid to touch. I could understand that from Nero. Shelke’s such a tiny little thing, he might be afraid he’ll break her.”

They both fell silent as Shelke spoke up.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said softly, voice thick with emotion. “I was so worried about you- all of you. I was so afraid…” she trailed off and swallowed hard. “It’s my fault Deepground fell. I helped Vincent, I didn’t try to stop Chaos from defeating Omega. Everything’s in ruins because of me. I just… I just wanted you to be free. I thought that if we could defeat Omega, the Restrictors, that things would change. Things would be better. Instead I just got everyone killed.”

“Not everyone got killed,” Nero said, his voice so gentle that it made Vincent blink. “I’m still here. So are you. I know Weiss and Rosso are out there, so are Azul and Argento. They’re tough, they’re all way stronger than the two of us. They’re fine. Probably out looking for me before I can get in any more trouble.”

This made Shelke giggle though she barely cracked a smile. “You’re stronger than you think you are.”

“I dunno…”

“You are,” Shelke insisted, “or you wouldn’t be here now.”

“Neither would you.”

Silence stretched as the two of them just sat there.

“Did you ever find your sister?” Nero asked.

“Yes,” Shelke said, allowing herself a brief smile. “Yes I did.”

“That’s so great!” The words contrasted sharply with Nero’s neutral expression and static posture. “I’m so happy you found her. I bet she was happy to see you.”

“She was. She’s really nice. I’ll have to introduce you.”

“You don’t think she’ll be scared of me?”

Shelke shook her head. “Nah, she’s a doctor. Nothing scares her.”

“I wonder what that’s like,” Nero mused so softly that the words were barely audible, “to not be scared.”

Shelke leaned against him ever so slightly. “Everybody gets scared.”

Nero shook his head. “Not everybody.”

“They know we can hear them, right?” Vincent asked.

Veld shrugged. “Do you know if they were an item in Deepground?”

Vincent shot Veld a confused look. “You think?”

“Well, look at ‘em,” Veld nodded at the mirrored pane of glass. “They know they’re being watched and they’re acting like it; like they’ve got something to hide. More decorum in there than in my grandma’s parlour.”

“Shelke only looks like she’s twelve,” Vincent reminded him. “They’re around the same age. There’s no reason to keep a relationship a secret unless they think someone wouldn’t approve.”

“Maybe somebody didn’t approve down there?” Veld suggested, which seemed a more likely reason.

“You don’t have to be scared,” Shelke said into the silence. “Nobody up here cares. They go real easy on you; stern talking-to, slap on the wrist. No one’s gonna take your mask away.”

Nero actually turned to look at her, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“I’m serious,” Shelke insisted calmly. “They don’t do stuff like that up here.”

“What _do_ they do?” he asked.

“They’ve already done it.” She gestured broadly at the interrogation room. “Lock you up, take your stuff away, keep you in one place where they can see you. That’s about it, really.”

Nero was incredulous. “But that’s nothing! You’re telling me that two dead soldiers is a major offense, but this is the worst they can do?”

Shelke shrugged. “Pretty much, yeah. Also, I heard that wasn’t your fault.”

“It was them or me,” he said flatly. A pause. “They’re not… They’re not gonna take it out on you, are they?”

Vincent shivered. There had been real, raw, honest fear in Nero’s words. Beside him, Veld’s gawk of surprise sank into a scowl.

“No,” Shelke told him, leaning against him a bit more. “No, they won’t. That’s not how they do things up here.”

From the troubled look in his eyes, Nero didn’t fully believe her.

“I’ve never lied to you,” Shelke went on. “I know you’d never lie to me. My sister, the WRO, they’ve been really kind, and not because they want something from me.”

Nero thought for a minute, turning her words over in his head.

It occurred to Vincent that Shelke might be choosing her words for himself and Veld as much as she was for Nero. What was she trying to tell them?

“He’s scared,” Veld mused.

“Back at the hospital, he started to ask if he was going to be dissected,” Vincent said. Veld looked at him sharply.

“He caught himself,” Vincent went on. “I don’t know if he self-censored the terminology, or if he thought he ought not to let on that he knows as much as he does.”

Veld was still staring at him. “He thought he was going to be cut open for study?”

Vincent shrugged. “I think so. I thought I’d heard him wrong, but I’m pretty sure that’s what he meant.”

“And unless I heard that wrong, he thinks Shelke might be punished for what he did,” Veld murmured, mostly to himself. “The hell would he think that?”

The guard assigned to convey Nero to and from the interview rapped on the door then opened it. At once Shelke and Nero shoved away from each other, six inches of bare wood seeming to appear between them as if by magic.

“Time’s up,” he announced.

“I’ll come see you,” Shelke promised. “It’ll be okay. You won’t be in here for long. I’ll help you look for them.”

“Thank you,” Nero told her, standing to follow the guard out the door. Shelke stood there silently, watching as the door closed behind him. Without a word, she sank down onto the bench again, arms crossed over her middle.

“You alright?” Vincent asked, entering the interrogation room with Veld right behind.

Shelke’s head jerked up and she promptly unfolded herself. “What? Yeah. Fine.”

Veld tilted his head, eyeing her. “What’s this?”

He brushed at something on her shoulder. The object- coal black and no bigger than a tea bag- fluttered and flitted off her shoulder, revealing itself in the bright light of the overhead lamp before vanishing into smoke: a butterfly. Swallowing hard, Shelke smiled.

“What was that?” Vincent asked.

“A cave moth,” Shelke replied. “I told him once that I thought they were pretty. They...got to be a signal, a code of sorts. It means he’s thinking about me.”

“Were the two of you an item in Deepground?” Veld asked. Shelke stared at him, expression utterly blank.

“What? No. I was a JANE.”

“A wha--?” Veld began, but Vincent interrupted.

“A female trooper. Some women could handle the mako and Jenova treatments. Shelke was one of them.”

“Yes,” Shelke nodded. “That's why I'm so short. You get weird side effects sometimes. There were a couple of other women who stopped growing before they should have.”

“Why is being a JANE significant?” Veld asked.

“Well, JANE’s aren’t usually viewed as romantic partners,” Shelke explained. “Romance was kind of discouraged down there. Actually, any sort of display of emotion was heavily frowned upon. I like Nero fine, but we were never a couple. I haven’t been a Tsviet that long, so I don’t know him as well as I knew my old squadmates.”

“So is that why the two of you barely looked at each other?”

Shelke blushed minutely. “Yeah. Old habits. You had to find work-arounds that wouldn’t draw the attention of the higher-ups or the Restrictors. Anything that involves your hands is generally a bad idea. If it just looks like you’re talking, normally they’ll leave you alone.”

“Is that why he keeps his arms like this?” Vincent mimicked Nero’s posture, crossing his arms over his chest and gripping his shoulders with his hands.

“Kind of,” she replied. “His uniform had extra-long sleeves like a straitjacket. Every time he used his hands, he tended to warp stuff into the shadows, so after a while, they made it so he couldn’t use his hands. He had a rig with mechanical hands on it, looked like the skeleton of a bat’s wings.”

Vincent nodded, a somewhat vague memory brightening a little at the description. “I think I remember that.”

“He’s actually got way more control than he thinks. A lot more. I’ve seen him do all sorts of things when he thought no one else was looking, or when it was just the colored Tsviets. When he’s scared or nervous, it’s harder for him to reign them in, which makes sense. The Restrictors didn’t like it when he used his shadows…”

“Shelke,” said Vincent, “is it going to be possible for Nero to live here? I can see I really don’t understand what he’s talking about most of the time, and he clearly doesn’t understand me. What can I do to help?”

Shelke shifted nervously in her seat. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “Azul and I...we’d tell them about the surface sometimes. I wanted so much to go home, but I never thought it would actually happen. Deepground’s...really different. It’s inside-out and backwards compared to up here. I’m not really sure how to explain it.”

Chewing her lower lip, she glanced at the door that had closed behind Nero only moments ago.

“I can’t tell you his story,” she said slowly, “but I can tell you mine. I was taken from my sister when I was nine. I was smart enough to impress somebody and even though women aren’t permitted in SOLDIER, Deepground was still running trials with female troops. Adult women and Jenova don’t mix, but sometimes it’ll stick if the treatments are administered before puberty hits. Like I said, it can result in weird side-effects, so me and a couple of other girls never physically made it past twelve.

“We were trained in combat and strategy, sneaking, spying, and generally being ruthless. I never expected to make Tsviet, but I did my best to make myself valuable. I guess it worked, because I got promoted when I was seventeen- not as a combatant, but as support staff. I was a spotter and communications officer for the other bigger, stronger Tsviets. Once I made rank, I was expected to train, and allowed to hang out with them.”

Shelke paused for breath. What she had told them was nothing they didn’t already know. Sighing deeply, she thought for a moment.

“You’re not...human, down there,” she began. “Not a person, just a thing. It wasn’t like the standard army, or even like Corel prison. The Restrictors controlled everyone and everything. Everyone had a microchip that forced them to be compliant and kept them from escaping. Everyone was afraid of them, even the Tsviets.

“Nobody cared what happened to the grunts, the rookies, the weaker soldiers, the JANEs. Someone was always on your case; verbally, physically, emotionally, psychologically… The other JANEs and I tried to look out for each other but…” trailing off, she shrugged.

“Shelke,” Veld broke in gently, “are you saying you were attacked?”

“At least once a week,” she said wryly. “Success rates varied.”

“Was Nero attacked?” Vincent asked.

Shelke shook her head. “I only knew him as an adult and a Tsviet. We didn’t interact at all before that. I can’t imagine too many people were dumb enough to come after him. The words ‘dark mako’ are enough to terrify most people.”

“Dixon mentioned that he looked out for his troops- or tried to,” Vincent commented.

“As much as he could, yeah,” Shelke agreed. “That was something else you had to be careful about. It didn’t pay to have the Restrictors think you have favorites. If they thought you were asserting your dominance or authority, that was fine. If they found out you liked somebody...that didn’t end well.”

“How do you mean?” Veld prompted.

Shelke repressed a shudder and took a deep breath. “They didn’t do it with the troops so much, but the Tsviets…” She had to stop and compose herself again. Reaching, Vincent took her hand and she gripped his fingers tightly.

“I don’t know what they did, exactly,” Shelke began, voice so small it was almost inaudible. “I just saw what happened afterward. The Colored Tsviets...they’re hard to make a dent in. The Restrictors were pretty big on corporal punishment. The only difference was, they wouldn’t punish the Tsviets directly.”

Steeling herself, she pushed on. “They sent Rosso out to stop you. She was supposed to kill you, but you summoned Chaos and rather than stay and be eaten alive, she ran. It was the smarter thing to do, but the Restrictors didn’t think so. She failed her mission, so she had to be punished. Rosso’s weird side-effect is that she can’t feel pain and Weiss is insanely strong, so the usual sort of punishments wouldn’t work on them.”

“What happened?” Veld prompted gently, resting a hand on her shoulder.”

“Because Rosso failed, they took it out on Nero. We had to stand there and watch while he tried to breathe without his mask.”

Vincent swallowed back acid as Veld asked: “How long?”

Shelke shook her head. “I don’t know. Probably not more than a few minutes, but it felt like forever. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen Rosso cry.”

She took a shuddering breath. “They’re not bad people. Azul, Nero, Weiss, Rosso... they just...the place they live in. The only thing the Restrictors have to use against them is their feelings for each other. They do care about each other, even if they don’t know what to call it. They have hearts. They have souls. They’re people and…” Her words broke off with a sharp sob and she hid her face in her hands.

“Thank you, Shelke,” Veld told her, rubbing her shoulder. “I know that couldn’t have been easy. Thank you for telling us.”

Sniffing, Shelke wiped her face with her hands. “I’m okay. “Really.”

“You gonna be okay?” Vincent asked.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she insisted. “Can I see Nero again? If that’s okay? I want to help him if I can.”

Veld smiled. “Of course.”


	8. Advocate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the shoveling continues and Vincent gets a new pet.  
> Sort of.

It was an unspoken rule in their house, that work was not to be brought home. Joking about an incident did not count, nor did going over the day’s events, or reminding one another of meetings and so forth. Discussing cases, or the intricacies of a pending op, however, were most certainly forbidden. Therefore, both Veld and Vincent were silent as they went home. Neither spoke as they abandoned their suits for more casual clothes. Vincent was not a cook by any stretch, but he often sat in the kitchen while Veld worked dread alchemy with knives and saucepans. Preparation of tonight’s dinner had a meditative quality to it as Veld sliced vegetables and measured ingredients. Vincent got the impression that while food was foremost in Veld’s mind right now, it was not the only thing simmering away.

Vincent could not decide what to think, what to feel. If he were handling this professionally, he should not feel anything except perhaps intrigued. Stepping back a bit might allow him to treat the whole thing as an exceptionally horrible sociological exercise. However, he couldn’t make himself hold Nero at arm’s length, and he could not have even said why. Even if the kid had his face, they didn’t know for _sure_. Shelke’s testimony had not made things any easier or clearer. She hadn’t been able to provide any real specifics or insights as to what went on inside Nero’s head. Unable to help himself, Vincent let out a frustrated sigh.

“Me too,” Veld said, not lifting his eyes from the cutting board.

“Can we just talk about it and get it all on the table?” Vincent asked. “You like to tell me you can hear me angsting from across the room, but I can tell you’re thinking about him too.”

“Thinkin’ about both of them,” Veld corrected, “and how their stories match up.”

“They don’t,” Vincent groaned. “I mean I feel bad for both of them, but what Shelke told us doesn’t help us much, and I get the impression that if I were to ask Nero, he wouldn’t know how to respond.”

“You’re probably right about that,” Veld agreed, scraping herbs into a pot. “There’s things he’s not getting, and things we’re not getting.”

“What I can’t reconcile is the sweet, slightly dim kid that’s been sitting in the brig for the last few days, and the First Class SOLDIER who put half his cadre in the hospital. The two dead patrolmen I could see. They attacked him. Why did he go for blood during a training exercise? Why doesn’t he just waltz out of his cell through the shadows? We know he can.”

“Damned if I know,” Veld shrugged. “I kinda wonder how much is going on upstairs. Maybe he only knows enough to follow orders; has trouble thinking for himself. It’d explain why he did such a lousy job fending for himself.”

Vincent shook his head. “I don’t know, but I don’t think that’s it. You saw him with Shelke. That’s the first time he’s presented anything other than a perfectly straight face. Well, figuratively. He barely batted an eye, but you could tell he was glad to see her, that she was important to him.”

“Did you notice she adopted the same body language as he did?” Veld pointed out. “Kept her hands close to her body, hardly cracked a smile, didn’t even make eye-contact, but her voice…”

“You could tell there was something deeper going on there,” Vincent agreed. “Maybe not romance, but something.”

Veld was stirring the pot with a wooden spoon. Vincent always half expected to hear him muttering incantations under his breath whenever he did this.

“So is he an idiot, a sociopath, an incredibly good actor, or some combination thereof?” Vincent asked. Veld did not answer, but went on stirring.

“Why did Shelke tell us about her experience?” Vincent continued. “It was incredibly brave, it couldn’t have been easy, so why divulge all that to two old men? How is her confession supposed to help us figure out Nero?”

“We’ve got more questions than answers,” Veld agreed.

“Is it wrong that I almost wish he’d get a couple months in the pen?”

Veld turned to looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Why do you say that?”

“Because he’s not good on his own, Veld. We both saw that with our own eyes.”

“I don’t disagree, but it’s not our problem to solve, Vince.”

“I know that,” Vincent grumbled unhappily.

“Look,” Veld said, turning off the stove and coming over to place his hands on Vincent’s shoulders. “He’s safe behind bars until after his hearing. The judge may save us the trouble of figuring out what to do with him. Until then, there’s no sense losing sleep over it.”

Vincent sighed and laid one hand over Veld’s. “You’re right. You’re always right, damn you.” He smiled up at his partner and Veld returned it. “I just wish I could do more for him. I know he’s an adult, but it’s got to be strange for him up here. At the very least, he shouldn’t have to figure everything out all by himself.”

“That’s what we did,” Veld reminded him. “The school of hard knocks makes for a solid education.”

“He’s already been through the mill, Veld,” Vincent said, looking up at him. “Isn’t it enough to have grown up in hell? Doesn’t he deserve better?”

Veld’s smile was soft and sad. “Everyone deserves better,” he said, leaning briefly to kiss the top of Vincent’s head, “but life isn’t fair. We just do the best we can with what we have.”

 _I have you,_ Vincent thought, _and Shelke has Shalua, but who does Nero have?_

\--

“Nero Sable, the court finds you not guilty of murder and aggravated assault. However, you will be required to enroll in the WRO Deepground Reestablishment program. You will be placed on probation to ensure that you make a peaceful and successful transition to surface life. Court adjourned.”

Nero blinked, looked at Vincent and Veld seated on either side of him, then looked back at the judge. 

“Ma’am, what...how am I to be punished?”

Vincent’s elbow nudged him, as the judge repeated, “Punished?”

“Ah, let me explain it to him, ma’am,” said Vincent. Turning to Nero, he continued, “There won’t be any punishment, Nero. The evidence shows you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But I killed two people, and injured others.” 

“Only because they were trying to kill you. You’re allowed to defend yourself. So, no, nobody’s going to punish you for that.”

Nero seemed to consider that for several moments. Vincent couldn’t see most of his face behind the respirator, but the frown lines and narrowed eyes seemed to indicate disbelief. Still, he nodded, and finally looked at the judge. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“You’re welcome. Do please stay out of trouble, won’t you?”

\-----

Their next stop was at the adjunct Refugee Assistance Office that Reeve had had set up at WRO headquarters. The Deepground civilians and other survivors had been asked to register here, both to allow the WRO to get an accurate headcount, and to make it possible to receive what assistance the WRO could provide. 

Each person who registered was given an identification card, along with a voucher which they could present at the medical wing if they needed treatment, and at the cafeteria twice a day for a meal. Housing was another matter, and a complicated one. Some of the survivors had been given beds in the WRO troop barracks, but that wasn’t advisable for all of them. Nero was a case in point.

Despite the evidence which showed he hadn’t struck the first blow, quite a few survivors - not to mention Avery’s and Chen’s families - still thought he was a homicidal maniac, a monster who would kill again and enjoy it. Nero didn’t pay much outward attention to the dirty looks and hissed curses as they moved through the office, but his eyes noted every movement, while shadows rippled round his arms and shoulders. 

“It’s less crowded here than I expected,” Vincent said, looking at the groups of women, children, and a few men gathered in the office. Most of them were seated with WRO personnel, filling out forms, listening to instructions, and going over paperwork. A few stood off to the side, waiting their turn. 

“They’ve been going through them as quickly as possible,” said Veld. “Some - like Dixon - were fairly simple to deal with and have already moved on. It’s mostly women with children, and a few stray singles, that are still going through the process.”

Vincent studied the signs pointing to individual areas, each one spelling out its purpose: Identification, Housing, Food, Medical, Sponsorship...Wait.

“Veld, look at that.” Without waiting for an answer, he led the way toward the Sponsorship desk, trusting both Nero and Veld to follow.

The clerk at the desk explained the concept briefly. “You can sign up to sponsor a DG refugee. You’ll be financially responsible for them for a set period, and you help them get integrated into society. Are you interested?”

“Yes, yes I am. I can do that! I’ll sponsor him. I mean, we--uh…”

Vincent turned to Veld. “Please?”

Veld just looked at him silently, one eyebrow up to his hairline, and then shook his head. “All right. Go ahead.”

Vincent turned back to the clerk, who handed him a folder full of papers. 

“Here’s the materials,” she said. “Fill everything out and bring it back here, and we’ll get the ball rolling.”

Almost as an afterthought, Vincent looked at Nero, who’d stood by with a mystified expression on his face.

“Are you okay with this, Nero?”

“You don’t have to,” the boy said, not quite mumbling. “I can look after myself.”

Vincent exchanged a look with Veld, whose only comment was a wry chuckle. 

“Absolutely not,” said Vincent. “Let’s get this started.”

\-----

It took a couple of hours, but Vincent managed to fill out the paperwork for his and Veld’s sponsorship of Nero in time to return to the Assistance Office before they closed for the day. Many of the details had to be guessed at, such as Nero’s birth date, and as for ID, he simply didn’t have any. That wasn’t unusual for a Deepground survivor. For most of them, the WRO was going to have to take people’s word at face value. Vincent did get Shelke to sign a statement saying that Nero was, indeed, Nero Sable - his surname now, or at least until he’d established himself aboveground and decided otherwise.

The one sticking point was Nero’s residence. Staying in the barracks was out of the question. Veld put his foot down on having Nero live with them, and Vincent understood. They still really didn’t know who Nero was. The killing machine who’d decimated two squads of patrollers didn’t match up with the hesitant, gentle young man who’d sat talking to Shelke.

The clerk at the Assistance Office tapped her pen on the application. “I have to put down something for residence. You can’t live on the street, you know.”

Nero sat quietly for a moment, then took the application back and scribbled something in the address box. 

“Nero?” Vincent leaned over, trying to read the form; Nero’s handwriting was only marginally neater than his own.

“It’s okay,” Nero said. “I have a place to stay.”

“Well, that’s it then!” The clerk gathered the forms together before Vincent got a clear look at what Nero had written. 

“We’ll let you know,” she said. “Don’t worry, they haven’t turned anyone down yet. There are more refugees than sponsors.”

Nero rose, having recognized a dismissal when he heard it. “Thank you.”

“Okay,” said Vincent, “you’ve got your meal and medical vouchers, and...somewhere to sleep?”

“Yes. I’ll be fine.”

Vincent didn’t want to pry. He had no right to ask where, exactly, Nero was going to stay, at least not yet. The program required Nero to report in once a day to his sponsors; things were moving along. He couldn’t help being curious, though. 

Before he could press the point, his phone rang. He knew the number well. “Veld?”

“Everything all set?” said Veld.

“Yeah, we just have to wait for the official answer.”

“Good. Then can you get your butt home, please? We’ve got a meeting early tomorrow, remember? We can’t put off going back to work any longer.”

He’d forgotten that. “Be there soon.”

He ended the call, and only then realized that Nero was gone. That worried him, briefly, but Veld was right. They didn’t need to babysit him. He had the basics now, the rest would come later. 

Taking Veld’s advice, Vincent put it to the back of his mind, and headed for home.


	9. Restricted Area

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Veld and Vincent receive a surprise guest and some ground rules are set.

“Sable reporting, Sir.”

Veld started from a dead sleep, panic surging through him like electricity, jolting him awake. A pair of large golden eyes peered down at him from the ceiling. Reflex made him snatch the gun from under his pillow and fire directly between them. The shot echoed loudly off the bedroom walls. Beside him, Vincent snarled and thrashed, fighting his own moment of panic.

“Veld! What--?” He got no further. A yelp of pain preceded a muffled thud as something large and heavy fell on top of them. For a moment both of them grappled with the thing, arms and legs and bedclothes tangling.

“I got him!” Vincent cried, and the weight abruptly vanished. Veld fumbled for the bedside lamp, but it had crashed to the floor. Leaping over the fragments of the shattered bulb, he slapped the lightswitch and swung around to level the gun at the intruder.

“ _Nero?!_ ”

Vincent had the boy in a headlock; one arm latched around his throat, the other twisting Nero’s arm painfully behind his back. Shadows rippled up and down Nero’s long body, but he remained in place. Blood, black and oily, trickled down the side of his face where the bullet had grazed him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Veld demanded. Vincent eased his choke hold enough for Nero to answer.

“Reporting,” Nero gasped. “I’m required to report once a week. So I’m reporting.”

“At _3AM?_ You’ll need a better excuse than that, son.”

Nero did not reply right away, fear kindling in his golden eyes.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I just… They said I had to report first thing and…” He swallowed, his sharp Adam’s apple bobbing below his mask. “I’m sorry, Sir. I should have asked when would be the most convenient time. It won’t happen again.”

Vincent was eyeing the kid, an odd look on his face. Veld tilted his head to one side as if to ask ‘What?’

 _He’s scared,_ Vincent signed with his free hand.

 _Good,_ Veld signed back, pistol still trained on their uninvited guest.

“Veld,” Vincent said gently, “he’s not here to murder us.”

Veld watched, eyes narrowed, as Vincent released Nero and stepped back. At once the boy grabbed his own shoulders, snapping to attention, yet somehow managing to hunch in on himself.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” Nero said again.

With a sigh, Veld engaged the safety on the gun and went to tuck it into his waistband- only to remember he wasn’t wearing any pants. Snatching the throw from the foot of the bed, he wrapped it around his waist like a towel. Vincent, who had no shame, just stood there watching the boy.

“Don’t they have doors in Deepground?” Veld grumbled.

“No,” Nero replied.

Veld blinked. “Elaborate.”

“Only restricted areas had doors,” Nero explained. “The labs, the armory, the Mother’s Gate… Oh.” Dark gray blossomed on his neck, rising behind his mask to stain his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. “Excuse me, Sir. I did not realize this was a restricted area.”

Valentine was actively struggling not to laugh. Veld shot him a look.

“Yeah, bedrooms are authorized personnel only,” Vincent said. “Next time, just knock, preferably during daylight hours.”

“Yessir,” Nero mumbled, chagrined.

Sighing deeply, Veld rubbed his face. Dammit, this was not what he’d signed up for.

“At ease, kid,” he said tiredly. “Valentine, put some godsdamned pants on.”

Grinning, Vincent gave him a mock salute and retrieved a pair of pajama pants. It was only then that Veld noticed what Nero was wearing. A hooded sweatshirt that was at least two sizes too big and a pair of trousers far too short for his long legs had been thrown over his mako suit. He looked like a nightmare attempting to masquerade as a human teenager and wasn’t doing a very good job. The WRO was supposed to be helping Nero look after himself, including two meals a day. However, even taking the incorrect sizes of the clothes into account, Veld thought Nero looked thinner than he ought to.

“Tell you what,” Veld told him. “Go on home, get some sleep, and come back later. Say around 1800 hours. You can eat dinner with us.”

Nero blinked, perplexity plain on his face. “Uh, okay,” he said blankly, then shook himself, straightening to his full, lanky height. “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

Veld couldn’t help the smile that had crept up and installed itself on his face. “Dismissed,” he said kindly.

“Sir,” Nero saluted, stepped backward into the shadows, and vanished.

\-----

Veld dealt with the inevitable visit from Municipal Security. Vincent didn’t hear what he said to explain away the gunshot; he stayed in the bedroom, still snickering, to clean up the fragments of the smashed lamp and remake the bed. 

When Veld returned, Vincent managed to keep the grin off his face. “So are we being arrested for disturbing the peace?”

Veld just shook his head, shut off the overhead light, and got back into bed. Crossing his arms behind his head, he stared up at the ceiling. Vincent got the distinct impression that even in the dark, Veld could still see the bullet hole above their bed.

“Valentine,” Veld said, “I don’t think I’ve had a full night’s sleep since you got out of the coffin.”

“Hey, you can’t blame me for this one! I didn’t tell the kid to show up in the middle of the night.”

“Maybe not, but we should have remembered that he doesn’t come out much in the daytime. He told us he can’t stand the sun. And he does take everything literally - much like you.”

Vincent thought about that. “So you do think he’s my kid.”

“I do, but not because of that, or even the physical resemblance.”

“Then why?”

Veld turned to face Vincent. Fine frown lines creased his brow, plainly visible to Vincent’s Galian-sight, even in the dark.

“Because,” said Veld, “you’ve stopped him twice when he tried to melt into the shadows.”

“Yes…?”

“Don’t you see? No one else has been able to keep hold of him.”

Vincent shook his head. “The doctor that treated him did, and the guards who put the restraints on in the hospital.”

“He was barely conscious then,” Veld pointed out. “When he’s fully awake and aware, he’s untouchable. For whatever reason, you’re immune to his shadows.”

Immune to shadows….the phrase touched off another of those elusive memories of the battle at Deepground. Black waves rushing over him, muscles on fire with the strain of pumping enormous wings, Chaos’s dark laughter as the shadows dissolved. 

Chaos knew shadows, knew their power, gathered it to himself and threw it back with all the force at his command, flinging his enemy into the void. No such insignificant creature could hope to survive such a blast. 

Except that he had. Nero had survived. 

“Vince?” Veld’s voice brought him out of his half-dream. “You still there?”

“Yeah.” The memory faded, leaving one clear thought. “I think I understand. It’s not so much an immunity, as an...affinity.”

“An affinity for shadows?”

“If you think of them as...an element,” said Vincent. “A type of energy. But why would Nero and I have something like this in common…?”

His eyes met Veld’s, and they both spoke at the same moment. “Dark mako.”


	10. Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vincent and Veld have a dinner guest.  
> And Veld does some recruiting.

Oddly enough, there was no bullet hole in the ceiling. Veld would have bet money he’d taken out the overhead lamp, but it was still whole and intact once daylight had brightened the interior of their bedroom. It was a little disconcerting to know Nero had snuck into their room via shadows. How long had he been there? What had he seen? Veld decided it was best not to think about it too hard and turned his mind to the matters of the day.

When he entered the kitchen, he found both a bullet and a spent shell casing sitting in the spoon rest. Picking up the bullet between finger and thumb, he looked at it for a long moment. A smear of black streaked one side; blood from where it had nicked Nero’s temple. That could be valuable. Grabbing a sandwich baggie from the cupboard, Veld deposited both bullet and casing inside. What he would do with this evidence he didn’t yet know, but it never hurt to be prepared. 

Nothing terribly unusual happened during the day, for which Veld was profoundly grateful. Vincent generated enough small-scale drama on his own. Nero was adding to his potential Valentine credentials by escalating things even further. To be fair, he wasn’t doing it intentionally, but it did make for a long day after a sleepless night. Perhaps Vincent felt slightly guilty about this, for he showed up a few hours later with take-out coffee from the cafe around the corner.

“Have I mentioned that I love you?” Veld mumbled, pulling off the plastic lid and sipping coffee strong and hot and black as the mouth of hell. It was glorious.

“Not recently,” Vincent said with a grin. It only took about ten minutes for a round trip to the cafe, maybe fifteen if there was a line. Vincent had been gone nearly half an hour.

“Where were you?”

“I went to check on Nero,” Vincent admitted.

“And?” Veld prompted.

“I didn’t talk to him, he was in class. Some sort of civics lesson, I think. Everyone’s eyes were glazed over except for his.”

“So he’s doing well?”

Vincent shifted awkwardly and sighed. “Academically? Probably. Socially… Well, if he is mine, he’s already at a disadvantage. Maybe we’re used to looking at him, but seeing him against...I don’t want to say ‘normal people’. Non-SOLDIERs? Veld, he doesn’t just look like a fish out of water, he’s more like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. There’s at least one empty seat around him in every direction. He’s all by himself at the back of the room, and not just because he’s tall. The other students are _terrified_ of him.”

“Well, if it’s all Deepground survivors, they were afraid of him before this. Stands to reason.”

“I guess the counselors can’t be expected to know that,” Vincent grumbled. “Especially not if he’s been giving them his clueless teenager act.”

“You think it’s an act?”

Vincent thought about that for a moment. “I don’t _think_ so? I don’t know. I could understand a certain amount of culture shock, a lack of pop-culture knowledge, but...”

“But?” Veld asked, one eyebrow raised.

“It’s hard to put into words,” Vincent said, frowning in concentration. “I just can’t reconcile the two sides of him we’ve seen. How can he be a cold-blooded killing machine and be so...innocent?”

Veld thought ‘naive’ might be a better term, but sipped more coffee rather than reply. He already knew what he’d be serving for dinner, but conversation was also an important element of even an informal dinner party. Coffee igniting his brain cells to life, Veld began a list.

\--

There was a shout and a scuffle outside. Wondering what had set off the neighbors this time, Vincent went to the front door and looked outside. Nothing. With a shrug, he closed the door. He was about to sit down again when someone knocked on the back door. It had better not be the little hoodlums up the street were testing their luck, Vincent went to the back door, prepared to summon Chaos, but stopped short.

“Oh. Nero,” Vincent blinked, surprised, and only mildly confused.

“I knocked,” Nero said by way of a greeting.

“Yes, you did,” Vincent agreed, summoning a smile instead.

“I was going to try the front door,” Nero explained, “but I think I startled your neighbor.”

Vincent laughed at that and ushered him inside. “That’s okay. It’s good for ‘em. Builds character.”

“Yessir.”

Evidently Nero had plundered the WRO rag bag in an attempt to dress for dinner. The Oxford shirt almost fit him; the sleeves stopped short a good two inches above his wrists, though it didn’t drown him the way the sweatshirt had. The dress trousers might have been black at one time, and were likewise too short for his long legs. A tie that looked as if it might have come out of Vincent’s own closet twenty years ago was knotted about Nero’s neck. Eyeing this valiant attempt at business casual, Vincent decided maybe he’d send Nero home with a few of his old things. If nothing else, the kid needed pants that fit.

Nero wandered down the hall, staring curiously at the decor; pictures, light fixtures, furniture, and the few knick-knacks arranged here and there.

“You have a lot of doors,” he remarked, nodding at the half-open entryways to the guest bedroom, bathroom, and master bedroom. Given Nero’s previous experience in doors- or lack thereof- perhaps it might be wise to tell him what was restricted and what wasn’t.

“Only the master bedroom is off limits,” Vincent told him, pulling the door completely shut to demonstrate. “The bathroom is fair game, though you should knock first if the door’s closed.” Perhaps this was insulting his intelligence, but it never hurt to remind anyone of the niceties.

“Yessir,” Nero said with a nod, and followed him toward the kitchen. There was no door here, just an open entryway. Veld turned briefly from what he was doing and waved.

“Hello, Nero. Have a seat, dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea--” Veld paused, looking more closely at Nero. “Not sure you’re old enough for booze. We do have soft drinks and juice. What would you like?”

“Um,” said Nero somewhat blankly, a bewildered look evident beneath his mask. Rather than answer, he asked: “How old do you have to be for booze?”

“Twenty-one, I think,” said Vincent. “Not that it ever stopped _me_ , but I’m trying to set a good example here.”

“Oh.” This didn’t seem to help Nero much. Noting Veld was still waiting for an answer, he fidgeted a bit where he stood. “I don’t mind?” he said hesitantly. “Anything is good. It doesn’t matter.”

“Tell you what,” said Vincent, catching a look from Veld. “How about sparkling grape juice? It’s non-alcoholic.” 

He snagged a goblet from a table setting, and filled it with the juice from a freshly-opened bottle. “Here. Sit down, you don’t have to stand.”

“Yessir,” Nero said, apparently in answer to both, and dropped into the chair. Looking at him, one would not have expected Nero to have more than the most rudimentary of manners, but any uppercrust boarding school would have been proud of his ramrod posture and folded hands. Hesitantly, he drew the glass toward him by its foot and just studied it for a moment, tilting his head to one side to watch the bubbles rise.

“It’s pretty,” he commented quietly. Rather than raise it to his lips, however, Nero left the glass on the table and withdrew his hand, curling it tightly in his lap.

Vincent eyed him. “What’s wrong? Is it too hard to drink with the mask..? I’m sorry, I can give you a straw if you want. It’s a little weird with the bubbles and all, but it will work.”

“Oh, well, um, that is, it’s no trouble, please don’t--” But Vincent had already retrieved a drinking straw and plopped it into Nero’s cup. So as not to be rude, Nero unlatched the lower portion of his mask and edged the straw beneath it. He blinked, squinting his eyes briefly at the sweetness and the fizz of the bubbles.

“It’s good,” he decided, setting the glass down again.

“Nero,” said Veld quietly from the kitchen doorway, “you can go ahead and drink. We don’t stand much on ceremony here.”

“Yessir,” Nero mumbled and took another sip. With an air of one who wasn’t sure what else to do, Nero stared intently at the table top. Despite his best efforts to conform to what he undoubtedly thought was proper mess hall etiquette, he couldn’t help sneaking glances at what Veld was doing out of the corner of his eyes.

Vincent sat across from him, hoping to put him at ease. “So how are the classes coming? Are you thoroughly confused yet?”

“No, sir,” Nero answered simply. “I understand the material. It’s useful. I didn’t know much about the surface before this, just what-- ” he stopped short at this, a flicker of alarm flashing in his golden eyes. He paused for a moment, staring at the table top before lifting his eyes to meet Vincent’s.

“...the Restrictors are dead?”

“Yes,” Vincent nodded.

“All of them?”

Vincent blinked. “How many were there?”

“Four. You’re sure all of them are dead? _All_ of them?”

Vincent had a flash of memory - more Chaos’s memory than his own, but there it was - and just managed to suppress a shudder at the remembered feeling of necks snapping, the crunch of bones grinding against each other. “I’m sure. They’re all dead.”

Nero nodded and took a shaky breath that rasped oddly through his mask. “Azul used to tell us about the surface sometimes. It wasn’t much. That’s all I knew before this.”

“Didn’t your superiors teach you anything about the surface? Seems like it would have been useful for SOLDIERs to know.”

Nero shrugged. “Cities, geography, locations. We knew about electrical grids and urban combat. Didn’t teach us much of the customs, Sir. We weren’t intended to blend in with the locals.”

He had a point. Deepground’s goal had not been integration with surface society. 

A thousand questions ran through Vincent’s mind, but he couldn’t choose between them. Nero was so obviously uncomfortable, or perhaps just anxious at being in a social situation he wasn’t used to. Vincent could relate to that.

“Well, gentlemen,” said Veld, saving Vincent from another attempt to draw their guest out, “dinner is ready. Vince, help me get this on the table?”

In a few minutes, steaming platters of fish and vegetables, along with a small army of sauces in bowls, were laid out on the table, and Veld took his seat. 

“Dig in, boys,” he said.

“Here.” Vincent, seeing Nero’s expression - what could be seen behind the mask, anyway - served him a generous portion of fish. He added veggies and pointed to the sauces. “Mild, medium, hot, and - what’s that last one, Veld?”

“Well, last time, you called it ‘Hot Damn,’ but I dunno if that’s appropriate.”

“Right. Well, take your pick, Nero.”

Nero looked at the array with something that closely resembled alarm. Below his mask, his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. After an oddly tense moment, he looked up and asked:

“What would you suggest, Sir?” It was arguable if he was addressing Vincent or Veld.

“Well, I’m the fire-eater,” Veld commented, helping himself to the ‘hot damn’ sauce. “Try them all. Why not work your way up, starting with the mildest? You’re welcome to as much as you like. I know kids your age tend to have big appetites.”

Nero nodded, visibly relaxing a bit. “Thank you, Sir.”

Shadows snaking along his hands, Nero very carefully and deliberately spooned a small portion of each sauce onto his plate. Separating a bit of fish with knife and fork, he nudged the meat into the mildest sauce before tucking the bite behind his mask. A small whimper escaped his throat and he closed his eyes as he savoured the mouthful.

“Good, huh?” Vincent commented.

It took Nero a moment to register the remark, swallow, and nod.

“It’s _amazing!_ ” he breathed, without a hint of sarcasm. “It’s really, really good. We never got food like this in Deepground. Mostly it was cafeteria food, or MREs. The Mothers supposedly ate good, but we just got the usual slop.”

He cast a quick glance at each of his hosts and quickly turned his eyes back to his plate, hastily stuffing another bite into his mouth. Veld got the impression this was as much to stop further speech as it was to taste the next variety of sauce.

Vincent waited while Nero cleaned his plate and, encouraged by Veld’s nod, helped himself to more. Nero added a large dollop of the hottest sauce, at which Veld gave Vincent an “I told you so” glance. 

Vincent ignored him and said to Nero, “So I understand you had Amy Dixon in your squad in Deepground. She told us a bit about the JANEs and the Mothers, and Shelke explained a little, but I’m still not clear on how it all worked.”

Nero finished chewing, considering, before attempting to explain.

“All females are divided into two categories,” Nero began, “JANEs and Mothers. Those able to bear children are added to the breeding program to become Mothers. Those unable are put into ranks as soldiers, or JANEs. It stands for Jenova Augmented Natal Exemption.

“Dixon started young,” he went on. “She was able to tolerate the mako treatments, so she became a JANE straight away. The same thing happened with Shelke.”

“OK,” said Vincent, “but...where did the Mothers come from? Were they brought in like Shelke was….kidnapped?”

Nero nodded. “Yeah. All the women have to be imported. Just about all the children born in Deepground are boys. Not sure why.” He might have been commenting on the weather, or the selection of books on the shelf. The unconcerned, offhanded tone clashed violently with the actual content of what had been said.

“So they were all unwilling participants.” Vincent’s voice had dropped even lower than it normally was, with a distinct, underlying growl. “And the Tsviets? How did they come up with you and your siblings? What were they trying for, with you?”

“The Tsviets are part of the SOLDIER program,” Nero replied, skipping the first half of the question. “We’re the elite troops; commanding officers. As with the Jenova and G projects, we were all born using Jenova’s cells. My brother Weiss was given regular mako, so was Rosso. I was the only one given dark mako.”

“And the Restrictors made all these decisions? They were your CO’s?”

Without waiting for an answer, Vincent exchanged a look with Veld. “I think I want to kill them again. And a couple more times after that.” 

“They were in charge?” Nero hedged, looking warily back and forth at them. “I don’t know if they made the original decisions over me and my siblings, but they made most of them from the time I was really little. I don’t remember them ever _not_ being around. They never actually led troops, but they definitely called the shots.”

“What about the Jenova cells?” Veld refilled Nero’s glass with the sparkling juice. “How recently did you have an injection?”

“I was born with Jenova, Sir, I don’t need more Jenova, just mako. We never did injections, it was external only.” Nero briefly pulled one sleeve of his mako suit to illustrate. “The others never needed as much as I did.”

“I see. Well, that’s reassuring, in a way. Don’t you think so, Vincent?”

Vincent muttered something, short words with sharp edges. Veld’s fingers brushed his shoulder, the brief contact lightening Vincent’s scowl.

“So you were in a position of command,” Veld said to Nero, “and you clearly have extraordinary combat skills. Any idea what you want to do now that you’re no longer in Deepground?”

“Er…” said Nero, panic flashing briefly in his golden eyes. “I...I haven’t really decided,” he stammered. “What would you suggest, Sir?”

“Well, we know the WRO troops are not a good fit. There’s another division that might be interested in someone with your, ah, unique skills.”

Vincent looked up at that, but stayed silent.

“Vince and I used to work for Shinra,” Veld went on. “Our division was known as the Turks - not our official name, but the one everyone used. They still exist. Pretty sure your shadowing abilities, as well as your fighting skills, would be appreciated there.”

“I...huh?” Nero asked, fear fading to honest confusion. He shook his head minutely, as if to clear it, and asked with an air of decided skepticism: “They would?”

“He’s right,” said Vincent, pushing fish around his plate with his fork. “Hell, Tseng would have an or--er, he’d be thrilled to take on someone with your skill set.”

“Tseng is the current chief of the Turks,” Veld explained. “He’s always looking for new talent.”

“What do they do?” Nero asked. 

“Mostly security and law enforcement, these days,” said Veld. “Sometimes covert missions. I suspect you’d be quite good at that.”

Nero did not respond right away. The fearful look had not left his eyes, but had taken on a suspicious edge. For a long moment he stared at Veld, taking his measure as much as Veld had been taking his.

“What if I hurt somebody?” Nero asked into the silence. “What if I kill somebody?”

Half a dozen equally unpleasant questions followed silently: _Are you just setting me up to knock me down? Will you kick me out again? Arrest me? Lock me up? Slice me up for research? Kill me?_ Nero had grabbed his own shoulders again, but he stared down Veld as if the two of them were the last ones standing in a game of Junon Hold ‘em.

“Sometimes,” said Veld, his voice level and soft, “that’s part of the job. But you wouldn’t be just thrown to the wolves, as it were. First, you’d have to go through trials to test your skills. If you pass, and Tseng offers you the job, there’s a probationary period. There’s training, which you’d certainly need. All of this would happen before you were ever put into the field, plus you’d have a mentor - someone with years of experience to guide you.”

“He means you wouldn’t work alone,” Vincent said. “You’d have a partner, at least for a while. That person’s word is law. And so is Tseng’s. You wouldn’t be on your own for probably a couple of years.”

Nero nodded slowly as he took in all the information. Vincent could see the wheels turning in his head as Nero stared at the table top and thought. It wasn’t as if he had many other options. It was still a risk- for them, for himself- but it was better than nothing.

“Alright,” Nero said at last, looking up. “What do I need to do?”


	11. Research

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Veld does some digging and finds a few things he wishes he hadn't.  
> Vincent wants to make everything better for Nero, but Nero doesn't seem to notice there's a problem.

“Well that went well,” Vincent commented cheerfully once Nero had departed. “Don’t you think so?”

“Yeah,” Veld agreed. “He sure liked the food.”

“That’s hardly surprising,” Vincent told him, gathering up the dishes. “You think my old clothes will fit him?”

“You’re both string beans, it should be better than what he’s been wearing.”

“He’s too thin,” Vincent said decidedly, precariously balancing several dirty dishes in a stack. “We should have him over regularly. What’s two meals a day going to do for a SOLDIER’s metabolism?”

Veld smiled to himself, following Vincent into the kitchen. This sort of benign interrogation was Vincent seeking validation for something. Apparently, it had to do with Nero. Veld had a good guess as to why.

“We can do that,” he agreed.

“I thought he seemed more sure of himself,” Vincent said. “Then again, not being in a holding cell will do that. He knew we weren’t going to hurt him.”

Veld wasn’t so sure about that, but nodded as he began loading the little-used dishwasher. There weren’t any leftovers- Nero had cleaned his plate and then the serving dishes- but there was enough soiled tableware to merit firing up the machine rather than standing and doing it all by hand.

“Did he?” Veld countered gently. Vincent opened his mouth, stalled for a moment, and closed it again. Wiping his hands on a dish towel, Veld went over and rested his hands just above Vincent’s elbows.

“Vince. What’s really going on?”

“I’m just...glad we’re able to do something for him. Dinner and pants that fit isn’t much, but it’s a start, right?”

Veld just looked at him, waiting. After a moment, Vincent sighed.

“Chaos destroyed his home, Veld, possibly his family. I know it’s crazy but I feel responsible, not just for the property damage, but for _him_. Sure Nero could hold his own in a fight, but he’s helpless against the sheer mundanity of the real world.”

“Not as helpless as he was,” Veld reminded him. “That’s what the classes are for. He’s not dumb, Vince. He showed us that much over dinner.”

“So he’ll learn how to do laundry and write a check, big deal,” Vincent groused. “It’s not the same thing, Veld.”

“Why do you think I suggested the Turks?”

Vincent paused and thought about that. Veld went on.

“You know as well as I do, if he makes the cut- and I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t- they’ll look out for him. It’s a different training set up from SOLDIER. He’ll do well with the structure, and he desperately needs a mentor, someone to show him the ropes for the street as well as the job. It’ll be a good way for him to learn and adjust.”

Vincent nodded slowly. “You’re right,” he said, but with a note of reluctance. “You’re right.”

 _I may be right,_ Veld thought, continuing to clean up in silence, _but you still don’t like it._

\--

Once Vincent got an idea stuck in his head, it took chains and a full pulling team of eight chocobos to dislodge it, and sometimes not even then. Maybe Nero was his, maybe he wasn’t, but Vincent seemed to have already made up his mind about that. Vincent felt responsible for Nero, and nothing and no one would be able to dissuade him from taking a personal interest in the boy’s welfare.

Well, there were worse ways for Vincent to spend his time. That in mind, one of them ought to make sure that Nero wasn’t any more dangerous than he’d already proven to be. Digging up information on Deepground would not be easy. All the primary leads- Hojo, Hollander, hell Shinra in general- were long gone. That did not, however, mean that all information was lost, it would just be damnably annoying to track down. But that was what Turks were for.

Oddly enough, Veld did find a wealth of documents, most of them boring things like the stores of food in the mess hall or weapons in the magazine. They seemed to go through guns at an alarming rate, which made no sense as Deepground hadn’t even been discovered until a few years ago. So far as he knew, no one from Deepground had been engaged in any combat or espionage on the surface. So why the hell were they going through guns the way most people went through socks? Stranger still, none of the weapons were assigned to a soldier. Indeed, he couldn’t find any record whatsoever of adult troops.

And then the gil dropped.

The soldiers _were_ the weapons, each assigned a serial number and little else. Reduced to objects, their progress was tracked using the sort of statistics that might be appropriate on the shooting range or the training simulator, but nowhere else. Looking at the endless pages of numbers and knowing that these were _people_ , somebody’s babies, somebody’s sons and daughters, kids like Nero who had either been born in hell or kidnapped and thrown into the pit to be eaten alive… He clapped a hand over his mouth, forcing back the surge of acid that had rushed into his throat. Valentine was going to flip.

He did not need Vincent to lose his shit. Not now. Except he most assuredly would. Veld couldn’t say that he blamed him. It was bad enough what Felicia had gone through, but she’d been happy in her way. All her decisions had been her own. She’d fought and won every battle except the last one, and Veld had been there to hold her until she could not fight anymore. Swallowing hard, Veld shook himself. He didn’t need to go to pieces too. Now was neither the time nor the place.

The problem was that while they could all talk, no one was sure of what was actually being said. Turk instinct was hard to beat back, and thirty years on the job had taught him to read people’s expressions and stances the way others read a newspaper. Nero wasn’t angry or resentful, but someone had put the fear of Alexander into him. It was all too easy to frighten him. One wrong word and the boy would shut down and hug himself, arms crossed over his chest, fists tightly clenched. Whether he knew he was doing it or not, Veld had no idea, but it meant the same thing as a criminal raising his hands in the air: surrender.

Letting the papers fall to the desktop, Veld massaged his face with both hands. This was not a project he could tackle alone. Technically, this should be Vincent’s job, but his long-time partner was too wrapped up in his own emotions right now to do anyone- himself included- any good. They were going to have to have a talk, and it would be better to do so here at the office. So far as he knew the kid wasn’t riding around in Vincent’s shadow, and it wouldn’t do to have Nero overhear them talking about him.

“Valentine,” Veld said by way of announcing himself as he entered Vincent’s office. “We need to talk.”

“What’d I do?” Vincent asked, looking up and removing his reading glasses; thick and rimmed in black plastic. If he hadn’t known better, Veld would have thought they were the same pair he’d had as a cadet. Funny how fashions came around again.

“Nothing.”

“You have your Lecture Face on,” Vincent said, shoving his chair back. “Which means I did something. I swear I have not come within ten feet of your knife block.”

Veld smirked at that, but it didn’t last. “We need to talk about Nero.”

Valentine’s already pale face became whiter still. “Oh gods, what did _he_ do?”

“Nothing,” Veld assured him, taking a seat. “He didn’t do anything.”

“Oh good,” Vincent breathed, slouching with relief. “So if he’s not in trouble and I’m not in trouble...why are you here?”

Veld rolled his eyes. “Because I need your help on this. You keep saying you want to do something for Nero.”

That made him sit up straighter. “Yeah, I do, but what the hell can I do for him? Like you keep telling me, he’s an adult and a SOLDIER. He doesn’t need the same kind of help as the other Deepground survivors.”

“Remember the last big case we worked before Deepground?” Veld asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

Vincent’s face clouded over for a moment. “The human trafficking ring.”

“How many women and kids did we rescue?”

“Gods, must have been over a hundred,” Vincent sighed, rubbing his face with one hand.

“You remember Corneo’s girls back in the old days. The older ones, or the ones who tried to escape. You remember what they were like?”

“Yeah,” Vincent nodded solemnly. “Poor kids. Guess the lucky ones are grandmas now.”

Veld smiled. “Kept track of a few of ‘em and you’re not wrong. They still got their hangups, but a few of ‘em made it out alright.”

“Good to know,” Vincent mused. “What’s in back of this? You didn’t come in here to talk about former hookers.”

“No,” Veld admitted, “but I do want to talk to you about survivors. You remember how to pick one out, right? You remember what a trauma victim looks like, how someone who’s been harassed and hounded all their life behaves.”

Vincent shrugged. “Sure. Paranoia, hypervigilance, down on themselves, think they can’t do anything…” he trailed off as realization hit. “Oh gods. It’s been staring me in the face and I never even noticed.”

“Valentine, no,” Veld said sternly, laying his flesh hand over Vincent’s. “You do not get to have a meltdown, you do not get to beat yourself up over something you didn’t and couldn’t have known about.”

Vincent clutched Veld’s hands in his, arms and fingers trembling as he fought for calm. Veld sat with him, stroking his thumb over the back of Vincent’s hand until the tremors eased.

“I’m sorry, Veld. I swear I’m not trying to be a basket case over this, I just…”

“It’s okay,” Veld assured him. “I’ve done this once myself. It’s both the best and the worst thing in the world to discover you have a child who’s grown up without you. At least Nero isn’t angry at you.”

“There is that,” Vincent mumbled. “Veld…”

“Yeah?” Veld scooted his chair closer and put an arm around his partner. Vincent leaned his head on his shoulder gladly.

“I know… I know this is a rare second chance. I don’t want to mess it up or waste it. Thing is… I can’t prove it, but I have very good reason to think… That is, I’m pretty sure…” he trailed off in a frustrated noise, took a deep breath, and tried again. “I have nothing to back this up but my own gut feeling and nature’s timing but...I think Sephiroth was mine too.”

Perhaps because he’d long suspected something along those lines, Veld was not as shocked as he might have been. Even still, the confession left him unable to speak for a moment. Sephiroth had lost his mind and died horribly, taking hundreds of people with him. Hell, Vincent had had a hand in the great General’s death. Vincent, bless him, was self-admittedly not the most mentally stable person around. If any part of that had factored into Sephiroth’s descent into madness… Unable to fully repress a shudder, Veld hugged him close.

“Okay. That explains a few things,” he said softly, resting a hand on Vincent’s head. “But that doesn’t mean the same thing’s going to happen to Nero.”

“Gods, I hope not…” Veld couldn’t swear to it, but Vincent sounded as if he were on the verge of tears. When he straightened, however, his cheeks were dry. “Right. I’m okay.”

“You good?”

Vincent nodded, his jaw set in steely determination. “Yeah. I’m okay. You know me, I needed a moment to be dramatic. I’m okay now.”

“Good. So. Nero.”

“I agree, I was too busy flailing to be of any help. I didn’t mean to leave you holding the bag.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Veld waved the apology away. “So what are we gonna do going forward?”

Veld could almost hear the groaned ‘hell if I know’, but Vincent kept the words to himself. Instead he leaned both elbows on his desk and his chin in his hands as he thought.

“I think it’s freaking him out that I’m trying to treat him like my son, like someone I’ve known since they were in diapers. I’ve known Nero what? A few weeks? Poor kid’s probably been through more shit before he turned three than I have in my whole life, and that is saying something.”

“It is,” Veld agreed.

“So. Maybe for right now, we treat him like a survivor. I keep accidentally scaring him and I don’t want to. It’s just...he talks about all this horrible stuff like it’s no big deal and I can’t help being angry.”

“Well, think of it this way. You judge his world, you’re judging him. He’s been up to his ears in it since he was born. He doesn’t know any different. Hell, he’s probably taken part in a lot of it because he either didn’t know any better, or to save his own skin. Hard as it’s gonna be, you’re gonna have to dust off your Turk poker face when he starts talking about what life was like in Deepground.”

“But he needs to know it shouldn’t be like that!”

“Not ‘shouldn’t’,” Veld reminded him. “‘Doesn’t have to be.’ Don’t tell him it’s wrong, just tell him how we do things topside. He’ll probably agree it’s an improvement.”

Vincent opened his mouth, thought better, closed it again, and nodded. “You’re right. It’s just not easy to let it go. After watching Sephiroth’s tailspin…”

“I know,” Veld said, gently squeezing his shoulder. “Nero will get a better ending. He’s already got a good beginning.”

Despite himself, Vincent smiled. “Yeah.


	12. Digging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent attempts to scavenge the remains of Deepground for answers.  
> He's not the only one searching for clues.

The crater formerly known as Deepground no longer gave off acrid smoke, but the piles of rubble were still there. Fencing had been erected around the entire site to keep out souvenir-hunters, scavengers, and the morbidly curious. There were cameras and alarms; Vincent knew where they all were, and knew the blind spots as well. He chose one of these as an entry-point, and simply jumped over the fence. Sometimes it was useful to have super-human abilities.

Veld’s research on Deepground had opened up more questions than it had answered, and it hadn’t addressed the one burning question that kept Vincent up at night: Was Nero his son? He needed to know, and this was the only place where the answer might lie. He had to at least make the attempt.

Much of the underground facility was now open to the sky. The hot spots had only recently cooled enough to allow anyone to enter, via a sloping section of rubble that led down to the interior. Vincent followed this path, slipping a little on the shifting rocks and chunks of concrete. Once inside, his Galian-sight allowed him to find his way through to areas where the walls still stood. Without a map, this would be a hit-and-miss operation, but the labs seemed the logical place to begin.

This close to the surface, very little was intact. His memories of that day were muddled; he remembered only flame and smoke, screams of terror, and Chaos’ unholy glee. The sour stink of ash mingled with the distinctive smell of death. Bodies lay in the halls, stretching charred finger bones toward escape, blackened skulls grinning in the shadows. He hoped Nero’s siblings weren’t among them; there would be no way to identify them from the little that was left.

He lost track of time as he picked a path through the maze of corridors. More than once, he had to backtrack when a hallway led to a dead-end of collapsed ceilings and crumpled walls. If he let Gigas out, he could punch his way through, but that would risk more cave-ins, burying anything useful.

If his sense of direction was accurate, he was now under old Midgar, but still nowhere near the region of Reactor Zero. Finding a door hanging off of its hinges, he pulled it loose, triggering a fall of plaster dust that hit him square in the face. He pushed through the doorway, coughing, and took a moment to clear his lungs. 

He’d found a roomful of desks, file cabinets, and computers. Possibly an administrative area? Dust covered the monitors, and papers littered the floor, likely scattered when the workers had run for their lives. He examined a few. Ledgers, requisitions, the stuff of boring day-to-day office work. At least this kind of research was familiar; he’d done plenty of it in his old Turk days. 

Rifling through a file cabinet, he found hints of what he wanted: Expense reports labeled “Laboratory A”, “Laboratory B”, and so on. Going from cabinet to cabinet, more references to the labs turned up, but nothing that specifically mentioned the breeding program or its results. He’d have to dig further. At least he seemed to be in the right part of the facility.

Another office, another set of file cabinets. An old memory surfaced, of a long day spent poring over records and making notes in longhand, while Veld complained that no one could read his handwriting, and Vincent himself griped about being stuck on office duty instead of something more exciting. Not very long after, he’d been sent to Nibelheim, and gotten more excitement than he’d ever wanted.

Maybe he was going about this the wrong way. Information about elite SOLDIERs wasn’t likely to be kept where just anyone could get at it. He needed to find a more secure location, possibly a safe, or at least the office of a higher-up.

Coming around a corner, he caught sight of movement down the hall. Galian’s keen sight zeroed in on a tall, lean figure who seemed just as surprised to see him.

“Nero?”

The figure vanished, disappearing into the darkness as if it had never been. After a tense moment, a familiar voice echoed among the wreckage.

“...Vincent?” A pair of golden eyes gleamed from deep within the shadows. Slowly, the rest of Nero materialized as he stepped forward. He wasn’t wearing second-hand clothing, only his mako suit. Even in the poor light, it was easy to see that the protective suit was becoming more and more tattered.

“What are you doing down here?”

“I might ask you the same question. Aren’t you supposed to be in training or something?”

Maybe it was his imagination, but he thought Nero’s pale face had flushed gray behind his mask.

“No,” Nero answered. “This is the only time I have to look.”

“Look for what? Oh. Your sibs.” Vincent approached, slowly so as not to scare Nero off. “I assume you haven’t found anything yet.”

Nero shook his head, long hair swaying with the motion. “No, sir. Not yet. I don’t have as much time to search anymore. Er...not that I’m not grateful. I just… The classes and everything mean my day’s full. It’s okay, though. I’ll still meet all my requirements, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried. You’re doing well so far.” How much should he tell the boy? Nero himself had noticed the resemblance, but maybe it wasn’t important to him. Veld kept warning Vincent to keep his emotional distance, but it grew harder every day. Damn it, he wanted this. Wanted Nero to be his. Was that such a bad thing?

“I’m trying to find some information on the Tsviets,” he said, hedging a bit. “Do you have any idea where that might have been kept?”

“Not really, sorry,” Nero shrugged. “This was part of the labs, but I’m not sure where the archives are. Some stuff’s on computer, other stuff’s in boxes in the vault. Er, that’s below us, down in the catacombs, I think.” Nero eyed the cracked ceiling and bowed walls. “I can get you down there if you need me to. I haven’t been looking for documents. So far, everyone I’ve come across is dead. Then again, they didn’t usually let us this close to the surface. All the residential areas are farther down.”

“If that’s where you think the classified stuff is, yes.” Vincent watched shadows sliding along Nero’s limbs. “Um, getting down there...you mean via shadow? I guess it would be faster than a staircase. I doubt the elevators still work.”

Nero’s expression was sheepish behind his mask. “I’m not sure we could walk there even if half the passages weren’t collapsed. I’m used to taking the shortcut.” Holding out one hand, he waited for Vincent to take it.

Vincent gripped his hand. “So how does this work?”

“Hold on,” Nero told him, and pulled him into the darkness. It was as if a separate hallway had opened. There was floor, but it was difficult to tell which way was up or down. Yawning blackness stretched away on every side. Nero’s rough fingers kept hold of his as he led him purposefully through the void, following a path known only to himself. Slashes of color and light- the red and green of emergency signs- shone through here and there as if through holes in a piece of torn fabric. Every now and again Nero would pause and examine one of these slits in the darkness. Finally he stopped and pulled the slit wider, ushering them through.

“Here we are.”

By temperature alone Vincent could tell they were far deeper than the office they’d just left. The air was cold and dank, the concrete walls breathing moisture. An emergency light burned feebly overhead, casting a faint red glow across ancient metal shelves full of wilting cardboard boxes.

“There’s way too much here to go through,” he said, walking slowly down a row of shelves. The place stank of mildew and mold. He turned to look back at Nero. “Could you help me take this stuff back to WRO headquarters? Or somewhere. We’d have to remove it anyway, might as well do it now.”

“Um, sure,” Nero agreed, nodding. Facing one of the walls, he eyed it for a moment and then reached forward with both hands. There was no door there, Vincent knew that. The wall was smooth, blank, unpainted cinderblock. Yet Nero pulled at it as if drawing aside a heavy curtain. The darkness tore, and both of them had to squint as the dismal storage locker was suddenly flooded with what felt like blinding light. Reverting to his own senses, Vincent blinked and squinted through the pain. He felt his chin drop as he looked through the hole Nero had torn in the fabric of reality and into the WRO foyer. The neon sign for the cafe and coffee shop flashed cheerfully.

The thought occurred to Vincent that they were all damned lucky Deepground hadn’t attacked first. Nero could have brought their troops right into the middle of WRO HQ, taking out civilians and agents alike before they knew what hit them. Had the Restrictors even known what they had in Nero? 

“Okay,” he said, pushing aside thoughts of narrowly-missed disaster. “I’ll...step outside, and you can hand me the boxes?” People were going to be surprised, to say the least, but there wasn’t much he could do about that.

“There’s more than just this room,” Nero informed him, shying away from the comparatively dim lights of the nighttime foyer. “There’s like….floors of this stuff. Plus the vault. That’s at the bottom somewhere. I don’t know if I can get everything. The shelves are bolted to the floor and ceiling.”

Nero stepped forward and peered into the darkness. “You’d better stand back.”

He gestured at the hole leading into the foyer and Vincent carefully stepped through it. Being on the other side was somehow even more disconcerting. Vincent watched as the rent in reality became a formal doorway with posts and lintel of solid darkness, more than wide enough for two people to walk through abreast. Nero raised his hands and then swooped them down again, the murky outline of the shelves and boxes disappearing into nothingness. A deafening _THUD_ echoed behind him and he jumped and whipped around, automatically reaching for Cerberus. A cloud of settling dust and a stack of several hundred moldy boxes were all that threatened.

“I’m pretty sure that’s all of them.”

Vincent stared at him, rapidly reassessing his power and his potential. Veld’s caution no longer seemed exaggerated. Where Hojo had failed, with Vincent, to create a super-SOLDIER, Deepground had succeeded beyond anyone’s dreams. And yet, Nero had never harmed anyone on the surface who hadn’t threatened or attacked him first. 

It was a damn good thing he was on their side, now.

“That’s, uh...that’s amazing,” he said, aware of how lame it sounded. “What about the lower floors? I don’t want you to overexert, but is there much more?”

“There’s a shit-ton of stuff down there,” Nero supplied, joining him in the foyer. “I can leave this here if you want,” he gestured at the gateway. “You can send WRO guys or Turks or whatever to get more stuff, or I can just move it. Pretty sure what you want is gonna be in the vault.”

“This is going to be a longer operation than I’d figured,” said Vincent. “Okay, can we just get whatever’s in the vault? I’ll talk to Reeve and Veld, they can get people together to move this stuff into storage somewhere else. It’ll take months, at least, to go through it all.”

As he spoke, the elevator dinged, and five or six people in security uniforms rushed out of the elevator doors. Seeing Vincent and the stacks of boxes, they came to a halt, hands hovering over their sidearms.

“Uh...Mr. Valentine?” The chief of security gestured vaguely at the boxes. “What’s all this?”

“Just a salvage operation,” Vincent said. “That’s all. Nothing to worry about. Sorry about the noise.”

“That’s...an awful lot of stuff,” said the chief, craning his head to study the towering files. “Dunno what Mr. Tuesti’s gonna say. You shoulda probably brought it in through the freight entrance.”

“It’s sensitive material,” Vincent said. “And fragile. And I didn’t want to disrupt regular deliveries. Don’t worry, I’ll have everything sorted out in short order.”

“Well...if you say so.” The chief waved a hand at his guards. “Okay, everybody, back to your posts.” With a last glance at Vincent and the boxes, and apparently missing the black hole in the wall, he led his squad away, muttering about incident reports and extra paperwork.

“So um…” Nero’s awkward syllables made him turn to face the boy and the hole he’d made in the wall. “You still want to see what’s in the vault?”

“If it’s not too much,” Vincent told him, already slightly nervous about what this would involve.

“Okay,” Nero said with a nod, apparently heartened by the assignment. Facing the doorway, he stepped up to it and crouched down. Edging his fingers beneath the shadow of the floor, he heaved and lifted it up. The floor rose as if on a stubborn conveyor mechanism, sliding up and away into the ceiling. Another dim room full of shelves of boxes took its place. Nero paused, his brows creased in a frown.

“No,” he mused, “that’ll take too long.”

Stepping back, he laid a hand on one side of the gateway. A pair of triangular buttons- one pointing up, one pointing down- glowed purple beneath his fingers.

“There we go,” Nero said, pleased, and pushed the down arrow. Floors slid away one after the other. Mold, mildew, and cobwebs flashed past. One floor carried a sluice of dirty water with it, causing Nero to dance back from the open doorway. At last he ran out of floors, the elevator grinding to a halt with a sound of grim finality.

Beyond the doorway was utter blackness; not so dark as the inside of Nero’s shadows, but it was a close second. No emergency lights offered the least resistance to the gloom. Deeply suspicious runoff oozed onto the tile floor.

“That makes it easy,” Nero observed. Vincent didn’t see how, and then it clicked. It wouldn’t matter if the vault were the sort more commonly found in banks. The blackness would allow Nero to bypass unlocking it entirely. He could just walk right in. “You might wanna bring a flashlight or your phone.”

Vincent’s phone was, as usual, somewhere else, probably on the bedside table at home. He hadn’t yet developed the habit of carrying it everywhere, and probably never would, no matter how many times Veld reminded him.

“I have a flashlight,” he said, pulling a small one from a pocket. “I don’t usually need it, but this is too dark even for me.”

Switching it on, he stepped back inside the darkness. “Lead the way.”

Stepping through the doorway, Nero made a clawing motion with one hand and held the other out for Vincent. Vincent took his hand and allowed himself to be pulled forward. Again the atmosphere changed, the air becoming warm and stagnant, so thick with dust he could barely breathe. The weak light of his flashlight showed they were in a room no different from the others, except the floor was perhaps an inch deep in what he hoped was water. It reflected black in the faint light.

“Anything specific you were looking for?” Nero asked.

None of the boxes here looked any different. However, there were also metal lockers and wooden crates as well as the usual cardboard file boxes. Vincent trained his flashlight’s beam on each of them one by one.

“Hey!” Nero said, coming up behind him. “That’s my number.”

Vincent eyed the serial number on the locked metal box and noted it on a few surrounding crates.

“Do any of the other ones look familiar?”

“That’s Weiss’,” he said, pointing, “and that’s Rosso’s.”

“Grab those,” Vincent ordered.

“Okay,” Nero agreed, and repeated his trick of warping the boxes out of the vault and into the foyer via shadows.

Vincent eyed the growing stack of boxes out in the foyer. They were going to need a forklift to get everything shifted out of there. It was nearly 5 o’clock in the morning. People would be arriving for work in about three hours; some of them, like Reeve himself, even earlier. 

Well, they’d seen stranger things. He’d explain. Reeve would understand.

“Take anything that’s in a metal box,” he told Nero, reasoning that the most important info had to be in something waterproof and/or fireproof. “We can leave the rest for later.” He had no doubt that Nero could get in and out of that vault anytime he wanted to.

“Okay.” Nero peered into the darkness and raised his hands. Air whooshed past, stirring Vincent’s hair around his face. A crash echoed distantly as the metal boxes hit the linoleum. He had to lunge to keep something else from tumbling to the floor.

“Nero!”

The boy hung limp and heavy in his arms. At Vincent’s voice he shook himself and blinked blearily in the darkness, golden eyes somewhat dazed.

“Are you okay?” Vincent asked him, fighting back a sudden surge of panic. If Nero fainted, or had somehow managed to injure himself, there was no way out of this airless room thousands of feet below the surface.

“I’m okay,” Nero panted. “I just...that was kind of a lot at once.”

“Can you get us out of here?”

“Sure.”

Nero tried to stand, but his knees gave way. Slinging one arm over his shoulders, Vincent hefted the boy’s weight, trying to keep him on his feet. Together they trudged through the darkness. Vincent let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as the pale gray square of the gateway materialized. The flicker of the coffee shop sign was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. He dragged more than helped Nero through, and eased him to the floor. There were no outward signs of injury, but his half-lidded eyes were staring vacantly at nothing.

“Nero?” Vincent tried, shaking his shoulder. “Nero!”

The boy started awake, struggled with him briefly- even incapacitated, he was frighteningly strong- and then relaxed.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “That took more than I thought…”

“Are you okay?” Vincent pressed.

“I’m okay,” Nero insisted, climbing to his hands and knees. “Just a little tired.”

A little tired his ass. Nero had mentioned classes and training taking up his day. The fool had probably been spending time when he should have been asleep hunting for his siblings among the still dangerous, smoking, unstable wreckage. Vincent couldn’t really blame him. Hooking Nero’s arm over his shoulders again, he helped him to his feet. The black arch of the gateway caught his eye. Like a regular elevator, a smooth door of what looked like highly polished black metal had slid shut within it.

“...should we leave that there?”

“It’ll be fine,” Nero told him, sounding drunk. “You saw how to work it.”

“I don’t want unauthorized personnel going in there,” said Vincent. “As for you, you need to rest. I can take you to the WRO infirmary, let them check you over, and then home to bed. You can skip a day of classes while you catch up on all the sleep you’ve missed. You really should have let me know how draining this is, I wouldn’t have asked you to do anything that strenuous if I’d known.”

“M’okay,” Nero slurred, struggling to stay upright. “Wasn’t hard. Just…” he was cut off by a Herculean yawn that rasped in harmonica notes through his respirator. “I had to look. They could be trapped, or hurt or…”

“It’s okay,” Vincent assured him, dragging him toward the medical wing. “I’ll help you look if you want. Hell, now that nothing’s on fire, Reeve will probably send search parties down to rescue anyone who’s still alive. He may ask you to help.”

Nero made a noncommittal noise and leaned on him more heavily. He stumbled and collapsed against Vincent; over six feet of lanky dead weight.

“Ooof.” Vincent shifted, and called on Gigas’ strength to lift Nero in his arms. “Come on, son. Bedtime.”

\--

The doctor on duty in the infirmary examined Nero briefly, assuring Vincent that Nero had probably not done himself any permanent harm. 

“He just needs sleep,” she said, “but you both already know that. Want me to give him a bed here?”

“He’s got somewhere to go,” Vincent said, “but I don’t know where it is. Nero? Can you tell me where you’re staying? I’ll make sure you get home.”

Nero mumbled something incoherent, his words trailing off into the even rhythm of deep sleep. Vincent shrugged.

“Okay, let him sleep here. Don’t try to remove the mask or the mako suit.”

“Noted.” The doctor fetched a blanket from a cupboard and spread it over Nero, tucking him in neatly. She scribbled a few notes on her clipboard and smiled at Vincent.

“All set. He’s not officially admitted, so he can leave when he wakes up.”

“Thanks.” With a last glance at Nero, who looked about as harmful as a puppy right now, Vincent walked back to the lobby. 

Stacks of cardboard boxes, wooden crates, and metal lockboxes filled most of the space. He sat on one of the wooden ones to wait for Reeve’s arrival, and to keep an eye on the elevator to hell. Reeve should show up soon, and shortly after that, Veld. 

Vincent could use the time to come up with an explanation for the clutter.

\---

“Veld,” said Vincent as he sank onto the side chair in Veld’s office. “You were right.”

“Well, that’s very gratifying,” said Veld, “but what about, in particular?”

“Nero.”

“Specifically?”

“You saw the stuff in the foyer.” Vincent rubbed his face, leaving streaks in in the thin coating of dust and ash he’d picked up in the ruins of Deepground. “Nero brought all of that out himself, using shadows.”

“I see.”

“Veld, he opened a door into the foyer as easily as cutting a hole in a piece of paper. If he’d done that for Deepground, we wouldn’t be sitting here now.”

Veld sat back, picked up his coffee mug, and drank from it, all while keeping the bland expression he was known for in his Turk years. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I’m not sure. There were boxes marked with Nero’s serial number, and those of his siblings. I haven’t even tried to open anything yet.”

“Don’t. I’ll ask Tseng to go over ‘em first, make sure nothing’s rigged to self-destruct if tampered with.”

Vincent nodded. “Reeve’s got a security guard posted there now.”

“Where’s Nero?”

“I left him asleep in the med wing,” said Vincent. “He’s been spending nights searching for Weiss and Rosso instead of sleeping. Pulling several tons of records out of Deepground exhausted him.”

“Well, then I assume we’re all safe for the next day or so,” Veld mused. 

“It’s not exactly funny, Veld.”

“And I’m not laughing.” Veld set down his mug and leaned toward Vincent. “I hope you learned something here. Whether or not Nero is your son is not even the major issue. He was brought up in Deepground. They taught him that the surface world is his enemy, and created him to help conquer it.”

“But--”

“Let me finish. He’s not a bad sort, in fact I think he’s a pretty decent kid, all things considered. But he’s always going to be what he is -a living, breathing weapon who can’t be easily contained. He’s going to need guidance up here, to learn to contain himself.”

“Are you saying you want me to -- I dunno, act like a dad regardless?”

“No, I’m saying you need to pull back a little. Be a friend, a mentor, someone he looks up to. If it turns out he’s your son, you can take it from there.”

Reading between the lines was an old Turk skill, and Vincent had learned to parse Veld’s thought processes decades ago.   
“You want me to keep an eye on him in case he turns out to be a threat.”

“I think that, between you, myself, and the Turks, we can neutralize any threat he represents. He seems to have a good heart underneath it all. Let’s figure out how to balance the danger with the good instincts.”

“You really think I know how to do that?”

Veld’s affectionate smile had a wry edge to it. “You’ve already done it once. Just be yourself.”

“Ah.” Vincent saluted, but it wasn’t mockery. “Yes, Chief.”


	13. Excavation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Vincent does some digging of his own.

Partially to get the mess out of the foyer before the morning shift came in, and partly to avoid a more serious chew-out from Veld, Vincent put a mixed team of WRO and Turk staff on clearing away the files he and Nero had retrieved from Deepground. There were over a hundred boxes neatly stacked, as near as he could tell, in the exact order they’d been sitting on the shelves. Nero had transported them all exactly as they’d been. The whole business sent a thrill of foreboding from deep in his guts up his spine. He wondered if that was what Veld felt every time he looked at Nero. The same chill shivered through him every time his eye caught the gateway. Vincent had taken a “Do Not Enter” standing sign from the nearest janitorial closet and placed it in front of the doorway, but no one had taken much notice of it yet.

As expected, Reeve was one of the first people to show up, strolling through the tall glass doors at 7am and stopping short to stare at the two-dozen storage boxes still sitting in the middle of the foyer. Eyebrows climbing, he took a sip of coffee and turned to Vincent.

“Should I ask, or should I wait for a full report later?”

“I...did a little spelunking in the crater,” Vincent confessed. “Nero went with me,” which wasn’t untrue. “We retrieved some sensitive documents. There’s more down there, but we just grabbed the most important stuff first.”

Veld might have grumbled at him for not following procedure, for potentially putting both Nero and himself in harm’s way. As it was, Reeve simply nodded, knowing better than to argue with Valentine logic.

“Is it safe to send teams down?” Reeve asked, choosing to follow a less fraught topic.

“Well, we were safe enough, but we’re hardly what you’d call ‘normal’,” Vincent began. “Nothing’s on fire anymore, but the structural integrity of the upper levels is shaky at best. I’d be happy to scout the area a bit first. I’m sure Nero would like to help.” Or would once he woke up.

Reeve nodded and proceeded to the elevators, not even glancing at the sinister new service lift embedded in the near wall. “Take care of it.”

“Sir,” Vincent replied, resisting the impulse to salute as Reeve disappeared behind the elevator’s shiny metal doors.

\--

There was, oddly enough, nothing terribly exciting or dangerous about the lock boxes themselves. The crates stamped with Nero’s serial number were boring, standard issue, metal footlockers of the kind frequently distributed by the military. There weren’t weapons or ammunition inside them, well, not mechanical ones, anyway. Nero had been bred to be a weapon, and while Vincent had a whole new appreciation for just how potentially deadly the boy could be, it was hard to imagine how someone who had grown up in hell could turn out so sweet.

The first few folders might as well have been written in ancient Cetran for all the sense they made to Vincent. Statistics, metrics, and page after page of medical mumbo-jumbo. Maybe he’d show it to Shalua and see if she could make heads or tails of it. Vincent did his best to at least keep it in the order he found it. Not until an old-fashioned Polaroid tumbled to the floor did he find something solid.

Picking it up, Vincent squinted at the photo. Putting on his reading glasses didn’t help much. The photo was old, and badly degraded. It might not have been very good to begin with; it appeared to be a picture of a box full of tar. And then he noticed the two dots of gold peering up at him through the murky colors. He tilted the photo a bit, trying to catch the light better, and suddenly the image resolved. It wasn’t a box, but a small tank, possibly a repurposed aquarium. The shot had been taking looking down into it. At the bottom, Vincent could just make out the vague outline of a tiny human: a baby.

Writing had been scrawled on the margin of the photo, Nero’s serial number and the words “eight weeks”. Feeling his brows crease into a frown, Vincent stared at the photo for a long moment, unsure what to think or feel. Turning back to the folders, he eventually found the stack of papers the photo had been clipped to. These were a bit closer to layman’s terms and seemed to consist of various work arounds the lab had had to employ in order to keep Nero alive. Wearing a mask and mako suit was bad enough as an adult, Vincent couldn’t begin to imagine trying to cope with such specialized needs in an infant.

Someone by the name of D. Este had logged most of Nero’s reports. They must have been his primary caretaker at the time. There were endless lists of incident reports, accidents, and near disasters as far as Nero’s own health and safety were concerned. As he got older, Nero’s statistics appeared on a graph next to those of two other children. Vincent recognized the serial numbers as those belonging to Weiss and Rosso. Compared to his siblings, Nero’s scores were pitiably low. His keepers felt he was somewhat dim compared to the other children bred to be SOLDIERs- Vincent wondered if Sephiroth, Angeal, and Genesis were being included in this- lacking in the aggression and competitive edge displayed by his older siblings. Having never met Weiss or Rosso-- wait, no. No, he had. Damn it, the memory was _right there_... It flitted away like a bat, and Vincent fancied he heard mocking laughter. Never mind.

Shaking himself, Vincent tried to refocus. He could look at Nero’s biography later. What he wanted was most likely in that first stack of gobbledygook that he’d set aside for Shalua. Separating it from the rest, he went through it page by page, scanning the contents until his eye snagged on some familiar words.

Although he’d expected Nero’s parents to be listed only by serial number, it was still disappointing. Whether or not their names were still on file somewhere was anyone’s guess. If Nero really was his, Vincent’s own records might well have been relocated to Hojo’s personal cache, and that had probably gone up with the Shinra building. Turning to the other jumble of letters and numbers, Vincent thought he might actually have better luck there. Perhaps if he could learn her identity, he could track Nero’s mother down. There wasn’t a person on Gaia who could hide from a determined Turk.

It wouldn’t do to take these too far. He’d have to visit the copy machine and give the duplicates to Shalua. With any luck, she could decipher this foreign language of blood and biology. Gathering the papers together, Vincent stood and went to do just that.

\--

“You want me to what?” Shalua gaped.

“I need you to tell me if Nero and I are related,” Vincent repeated.

“Vincent…” Shalua began, glancing at the stack of copied papers he’d given her. “Even if I knew what this was, I’m not sure I could tell you anything helpful.”

“Why is that? You’ve got his mother and father’s statistics right there.”

“Yes, but look here.” She pointed just below the two serial numbers to a name: JENOVA.

Oh.

“Nero was conceived with Jenova’s cells,” Shalua explained. “Like Sephiroth, Angeal, and Genesis, he’d have type J blood. Jenova overrides most of the genetic markers I’d use to plot someone’s individual traits. Even if that wasn’t the case, I wouldn’t have anything to compare it to. You’ve had a lot of work done yourself. I doubt your blood now would match a sample from back then. Do you know if there are any legitimate samples of your blood or tissue still on file?”

Vincent had to think about that. “I had to give a blood sample back when I signed on as a Turk, in case of a medical emergency.” Not to mention all the time he’d spent in Hojo’s lab, but nothing from that misadventure was likely to be left out in plain sight.

“Do you think Tseng would still have that on file?” The look on her face said she thought this unlikely. However, Vincent knew for a fact that Veld- and Tally before him- had never thrown anything away.

“Hey, I’m a Turk,” he told her with grin. “If it exists, I’ll find it.”

\--

He might have been too optimistic about finding a decades-old blood sample, or paperwork related to it. Reeve let him into the archives kept in the WRO’s lower levels, wherein much of the documents rescued from the demise of Shinra had been stored. Most people had no idea this much still existed. Vincent could wish there was a little less.

Granted, the Turks’ section was generally well-organized. Facts, after all, were their stock in trade. The tricky part was digging far enough into the past to find the relevant records, and then locating anything relating to himself.

The boxes were labeled chronologically, with the most recent closest to the door of the storage room. After shifting what felt like about a hundred of them, Vincent finally found the ones he wanted. His own files were near the bottom, still labeled “Missing: Presumed Dead.”

Well. That was disconcerting. Also mostly true - but only mostly.

He sat on one of the stacks to flip through the records. The medical files were still unintelligible to him, but there were copies of letters that had been sent to his personnel file, summarizing the details. He’d been in excellent health, right up until that final assignment to Nibelheim. 

Wait. Nibelheim?

Mentally kicking himself, he piled up the boxes, more or less as they’d been, and hurried back to Veld’s office. 

\---

“You’re going where?” For a moment, Veld stared at him as though he’d just sprouted horns. “Vince, you hate that place.”

“I know. But you’re always after me to be logical, Veld. This is the logical place for the stuff to be, if it’s anywhere. What Hojo did - he did there, in that lab. He may have sent some copies of records back to Shinra, but he was off the rails by then. Keeping secrets was his MO. They probably never knew the full extent of what he did.”

“Yeah, I get that. But, still.” Veld let out a frustrated sigh. “Why don’t you ask Tseng to send someone?”

“It’s my problem,” said Vincent. “And I would know what to look for. They wouldn’t.”

“They’re Turks,” Veld pointed out. “Tseng trained them. They would know.”

Vincent shook his head. “Still. It’s my responsibility. If you and Reeve can spare me, I’d rather do it myself.”

“I could go,” said Veld, very quietly.

“Thank you for offering. But again, no.”

Veld didn’t often lose an argument, but he could recognize inevitability when he saw it. “Okay.” He waved a hand at the door. “Be back by Monday, will ya?”

“I’ll be back before then,” said Vincent with a decisive nod.

\---

Although Chaos had returned to the planet, Vincent had retained the ability to borrow his form. It was both more convenient than taking a commercial flight (or a WRO plane), and less irritating. He wouldn’t have to put up with crying babies or seatmates pushing into his space. 

He would, however, have to talk to Hellmasker.

Gigas, he didn’t mind. As long as nothing threatened him, the berserker could be mild as milk, and a decent conversationalist. He wasn’t able to help Vincent with memories of the lab, though.

“I am sorry, Vincenz,” he said, his dark eyes mournful. “I cannot recall what was done. We were none of us in our right mind at the time.”

“True,” said Vincent. “Thank you.”

Galian wasn’t much help, either. He could speak, when he wanted to, but he understood little beyond hunting and guarding. The outside world was not his natural habitat. Any mention of Hojo tended to upset him. He growled in denial, and retreated into the recesses of Vincent’s mind.

Vincent sighed. He avoided the inevitable for a while, concentrating on flight. He’d crossed the sea about an hour ago, and was currently high over rolling hills, dotted here and there with the lights of houses and farms. Air rushed under his wings, cold and damp. The updraft made his eyes water. Next time, he’d borrow a pair of goggles, dammit.

Might as well get it over with. “Hellmasker. Wake up.”

No response. That was typical. Vincent turned his attention inward, hoping his brain could fly on autopilot. 

“Mask! Come on out, I want to talk to you.”

“Eh what? What you want now? Was sleeping.” Mask’s red eyes loomed out of the shadows, blinking. 

“Tell me something. Do you remember what Hojo did? Specifically, what, ah--samples he took from us?”

Mask grumbled, muttering curses. “Nasty Man. No! Nothing! Blood and bone is all.”

“You’re contradicting yourself,” Vincent said. “Do you remember or not?”

“Just remember needles and knives,” Mask hissed. “Is bad enough. Don’t poke the past, Valentine!”

Generally good advice, just not very helpful in this context. Vincent gave up questioning his headmates and returned his attention to his destination. He should be there before dawn.

\--- 

Time had not been kind to Shinra Manor. Dust and cobwebs outnumbered the rats. The monsters had fled, leaving the old house to be claimed by birds, insects, and ivy. At least half of the roof had fallen in, and a hemlock tree now grew in the grand foyer. The once-elegant rooms were hung with empty shadows, the overall atmosphere more sad than sinister.

There was no point exploring any of the upper floors. Anything of value had long since been stripped from the mansion. Vincent went straight for the basement. The main laboratory, too, was empty of the worktables, mako tanks, and varied esoteric equipment of its heyday. Galian’s keen sense of smell picked up the scent of stale mako and old blood, and the wolf whined, his distress underscored by Mask’s hissing and Gigas’s basso moan.

Vincent, nerves strung tight as a piano-wire garrote, halted in the middle of the room. “Quiet down, you lot! I can’t think.”

“Blood and bone, blood and bone,” Mask muttered. “Old brick, rotten stone.”

“Can the nursery rhymes,” Vincent snapped. “If you can’t be useful, shut up.”

Mask retreated in offended silence. _Finally._

If Hojo had hidden anything, it wouldn’t be in the main lab. Vincent located the door to the sub-basement, and took the stairs downward. Every step required an act of will, while his instincts screamed at him to flee.

At first glance, his enhanced eyesight revealed nothing he hadn’t expected. The exam table lay smashed to kindling, draped in dust and spider webs. Tangled wires hung like old roots from the ceiling, bits of glass crunched underfoot, and slime marked the ancient brick and stone walls. A rusty scalpel lay at the foot of the stairs. Vincent kicked it away, and it struck the wall with a clang, bouncing off of a protruding stone. Vincent blinked as memory flashed, blindingly bright one moment, gone the next. _Dammit._

No file cabinets here, either, and a quick search of the remaining shelves revealed nothing but woodworm. Another dead end, unless…That elusive memory refused to settle. He pressed fingers to his temple, reaching, straining… _there._

Intense light, burning pain, panting for breath around the leather gag in his mouth, a tall figure in a white coat retreating, bending, pulling a stone out of the wall, bony hands shoving something small into…

A hole in the wall, marked by a protruding stone.

The scalpel tip broke off as he jammed it into the crevice around the stone. No matter; he’d worn the gauntlet for a reason. Calling on Gigas’s strength, Vincent gripped the stone and twisted, turning it right and left like a combination lock. Another twist, he pulled, and it popped out. He reached into the hole, finding it deeper than he’d expected, talons scraping bare dirt.

Brass clinked against something metallic. He pulled it out. A base metal lockbox, green-tinged with corrosion. Too anxious to wait, he pried it open with the scalpel.

A thick sheaf of yellow papers, covered with faded, crabbed handwriting, lay atop a small collection of flat glass squares, each one in its own glassine envelope. Microscope slides, dark with samples of something. He shivered, having a damn good idea of what that something was. There was also a small vial filled with a dingy liquid. Inside floated dull white fragments of what could only be bone.

 _Blood and bone, old brick, rotten stone…_ Mask had told him what he’d wanted to know.

Dammit, he hated it when Hellmasker was right.


	14. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nero has an interview, and undergoes some on-the-job training.  
> It is safe to say he is somewhat over-qualified.

“A Tsviet?” Tseng echoed. “An elite SOLDIER. In ranks with the Turks?”

“He’s a good kid,” Veld told him, wondering slightly at his own words.

“This is the same boy who slaughtered two of the street patrol and nearly killed his entire unit during a training exercise?”

“Yes,” Veld replied evenly. “He’s a living weapon, just like Sephiroth, Genesis, and Angeal. Like them, he’s a person. He’s got a heart and a soul and a need to please. He could do well in the right environment.”

“And you think the Turks would be better than the military?”

“He’s…” Veld paused, searching for the right words. “We both know he’s an accident waiting to happen, but with training and direction, accidents can be avoided. He’d be invaluable to you. He just needs someone to teach him, to guide him. He’s not going to get that in the military.”

Tseng nodded thoughtfully. “Alright. Gods know Shinra wasn’t any kinder to its SOLDIERs. It isn’t fair to write him off before he’s been given a chance.”

Inwardly, Veld sighed, knowing he’d won.

“He’ll need to pass the usual screenings,” Tseng reminded him. “He’ll be put through his paces just like everyone else.”

“Of course,” Veld nodded.

“I don’t need to remind you that a repeat performance of his military trial would greatly diminish his chances,” Tseng warned, one eyebrow cocked.

Veld fought the impulse to smile. It wasn’t often Tseng wore the full authority of his position in front of his own Chief and mentor.

Veld nodded solemnly. “Yes, sir.”

\--

The suit wasn’t blue, but dark gray, and looked better on Nero than it had on Vincent, not that Vincent had worn it more than once. In it, Nero’s skin looked less pallid, closer to something more mundane. Vincent helped him tie his hair back in a low queue. Even with the mask, it was the closest to “normal” he’d ever appeared. Peering at himself curiously in the full length mirror attached to the back of the second bedroom’s door, Nero seemed reasonably satisfied with his appearance as well.

“I don’t look like me,” he observed. “But in a good way.”

“You clean up well,” Veld agreed, sweeping a lint brush over the boy’s shoulders once more for good measure.

“Keep your arms at your sides,” Vincent reminded him, as Nero reached for his own shoulders. “S’alright. Tseng’ll be plenty impressed.”

“Sorry,” Nero apologized and locked his arms straight against his body. “Yessir.”

\--

Most people didn’t have access to the WRO training rooms.

Most people also didn’t have Max Kimura’s hacking skills.

Somebody in the bio-gen labs had spilled a story about a new guy throwing troops around like rag dolls. Turks were involved. Half a gil said she knew which Turks; or ex-Turks, more likely. She skipped out on a lecture at Midgar U to find out for herself.

It took nine seconds to get past the lock. The idiots hadn’t even bothered to change the codes since last week. She ought to be able to trade an unbreakable code to Reeve in exchange for permanent access to the training area.

She slipped into the room just as a trooper came flying past. The man landed hard and rolled to a stop in a corner. Another followed, sprawling on top of the first. Max followed his trajectory back to the opposite corner, where a stranger in gray stood, legs braced wide apart, taking on all comers and wreaking havoc.

“The hell…?” She came as close as she could to the roped-off arena, just to the left of a man with familiar gray-bronze hair. As she watched, shadows sparked and swirled around the stranger, blocking an attack by four of Reeve’s finest. All four were thrown ass-over-elbow out to the middle of the floor.

“Gods above and below. Where’d you find him?” It was definitely a man, as tall as Valentine and about as wiry.

“Hello, Max. Cutting class again?” Veld Dragoon glanced over his shoulder at her, giving her the Big Scary Turk scowl that hadn’t frightened her since she was nine years old.

“It’s just pharmacology. I’ll borrow someone’s notes.” She nodded at the man in the far corner. “Whozat?”

He sighed. Oh, yeah, he was so long-suffering. She grinned at him. “Come on, Turkmeister. Details?”

“His name’s Nero. And this is supposed to be a private trial.” Cue the pointed look, which she ignored.

“You’re testing him for the Turks? And you won’t test me? That is totally unfair! You know I’ve wanted to be a Turk since I was nine!”

Veld waited until another pair had been bounced halfway to Junon, then turned around to face her. “One: I didn’t mention the Turks. Two: It’s not up to me to test anybody for the Turks, as I am now employed by the WRO. And three: You’re a bioengineering student, not a goon. Oh, and four: How the hell did you get in here?”

“Duh. In reverse order: I hacked the lock, it was easy. I’m a student now, but when I graduate I’ll need a job and you know in your black heart I’d make a damn good goon, er, Turk. You’re not fooling anybody by working for Reeve, even Rufus Shinra defers to you on that score. And you don’t have to mention Turks, you just have to exist.”

He rolled his eyes. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were related to Valentine.”

She caught the slight turn of his head, the way his gaze flicked to Nero for half a second.

“Wait. Are you saying--?”

She peered across the floor to Nero, tall, lean, moving with an eerie, fluid grace she’d only ever seen one other person exhibit. Most of his face was covered by some sort of mask, and his eyes appeared to be yellow-gold, not red; but the long, black hair, the shape of his head and shoulders, the narrow hips and very nicely curved backside that she certainly couldn’t swear matched Vin’s…uh…

Mentally smacking herself for getting distracted, she watched him for a couple more seconds before turning back to Veld.

“He’s Vincent’s son?”

“Did I say that? Don’t jump to conclusions.”

Typical Turk obfuscation. Veld said nothing more. Max watched him watch Nero. 

“He moves like Vin, though!” she said. “Similar body type, same coloring, except for the eyes. Even his hair…”

The man gave so little away, but after years of practicing her observational skills on him, she caught the narrowing of his eyes, the slight jump of a muscle in his jaw. She’d hit her target, or come damn close. 

“So it’s possible, isn’t it? How’d that happen? Was Vin really in a box for decades, or is that story bullshit, too? Come on, Veld, give!”

“Pushy brat.” He took her arm and steered her away from the roped-off area, far enough from the other observers that they couldn’t be overheard. “All right, Miss Turk-Wanna-Be, what do you know about Deepground?”

“That bunch of crazies? Some nutty project run by that wackjob Hojo, wasn’t it? Offshoot of the SOLDIER program or something like that?”

He nodded. “Close enough. That’s where Nero grew up. And Vincent’s years in the coffin did happen. You should know better than to question that.”

She winced. “Sorry.” Valentine was okay, even if he was wound a little too tight. “So cut to the chase. How’d this guy end up here?”

“After Deepground was taken down, he turned up in the city. Vincent and I are sponsoring him as a refugee. I’m not confirming or denying anything else. Now keep your speculations to yourself. I am not kidding, Maia.”

“Yeah, sure.” Anytime he used her formal name, she knew it was serious. What the hell, for old family friends she’d keep a secret, if there was one to keep.

The troopers--volunteers, if they’d followed procedure--clustered at the far end of the arena, eyeing Nero like a flock of sheep eyeing a wolf. Nero himself, while breathing a bit hard, didn’t appear to have a mark on him. He shook his hair back, brushed off his snug gray body suit, and gave Veld a surprisingly shy smile, just visible around the edges of his mask.

“Was that all right?”

His voice, not quite as low as Vincent’s, came out breathy, with a bit of a buzz as though he’d spoken through a bad microphone. He approached slowly, all arms and legs and shifting shadows. He stopped in front of Veld, barely glancing at Max, and waited with the eager air of a young sighthound hoping for praise.

“That was brilliant.” Veld grinned his wolf’s grin, wide and white and sharp. “Vincent will be sorry he missed it.”

Again that barely-there smile behind the mask, eyes flashing gold. The golden gaze flicked to Max’s face.

“Hello.”

Max blinked. Sweet Gaia, that was a damn pretty man…well, the eyes were, anyway, and the rest, what she could see of him, wasn’t bad at all either.

“Nero,” said Veld, “this is Maia Xavier Kimura, also known as Max. She works here at the WRO. She’s also a student at the university next door, when she actually shows up for class.”

Nero took that in with obvious confusion, though Max wasn’t sure Veld could tell. Or else he was trying to keep the kid off balance. Turks did that.

“Why do you have three names?” said Nero. Poor guy had probably picked out the one thing that he could actually process.

Max smiled at him. “It’s just a tradition that my parents liked. You can call me Max, though. Okay?”

“Um, sure.” He gave her a slight nod, flushing a little at the afterthought. “I…it’s nice to meet you.”

“You, too. Looks you like beat the snot out of the troops, there. Pretty good work.”

“Thanks.” There was that slight smile again. The shy ones were always so cute.

“Hey, you wanna go get some coffee?”

“Um.” His eyes flicked to Veld, seeking permission.

“Go ahead.” Veld waved a hand, dismissing them. “Bring him to my office when you’re done, Max. And don’t go anywhere else you’re not authorized for!”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on, shadow-boy!”

Nero’s eyes had gone wide at her tone. Seeing that, she snickered.

“He’s an old friend of my family,” she said. “I’ve known him since I was a kid. Don’t worry, his bark is worse than his bite. Mostly.”

“His what…?”

She shook her head, leading him toward the doors. “Never mind, I’ll explain over a latte, okay?”

Nero nodded, only slightly bewildered. “Okay.”


	15. Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero experiences coffee. Also cake.  
> And manages to make friends despite being socially oblivious.

Max had anticipated having to jog to keep up with Nero’s much longer stride, but he checked his pace so that he could walk a half-step behind her, hovering at her elbow. She couldn’t decide if he didn’t know where the coffee shop was, or if Veld’s approval of their little excursion somehow merited her as the one in charge, at least where coffee was concerned. Although she was used to people doing slight double-takes at her hair color- she really needed to recolor it, the brilliant Alice blue had faded to a pleasant periwinkle, but would soon be closer to a powder blue and then an unattractive gray-white- but more than the average number of people were rubbernecking as they went past.

Above her, Nero hunched deeper into the hooded sweatshirt he’d donned now that combat practice was over. If not for the respirator jutting out from the deep cowl of soft fabric, he might have been any other new recruit. He kept his hands shoved deep in the front pocket, and his gazed fixed firmly on the floor. He might not be scared or embarrassed, but he sure as hell wasn’t comfortable with all the attention. To reassure him as well as to mess with anyone trying to stare out of the corner of their eyes, Max slipped her hand through his elbow. Nero started briefly at this, and looked down at her in some confusion. Max just grinned and led him through the open doors into the cafe.

The glorious smell of fresh coffee and sweet sugar filled the air, and Max inhaled dreamily. If ever they made a coffee shop scented candle, she would buy it. A couple of other people looked up and then hastily away as Max led Nero over to a vacant table and dumped her backpack on a chair. Seats claimed, she turned her attention to the menu board.

“So, what do you want?” she asked Nero.

He looked up at the meticulous chalk printed menu with something like alarm.

“I don’t even know what most of that is,” he mumbled behind his respirator.

“Well, you’ve had plain coffee before, right?” It might be overcompensating, but she had no idea how sheltered from fun, normal things like lattes and movies and pop music Nero had been down in Deepground. Best to start small.

“Yeah,” he nodded.

“Okay, well all this is coffee- either hot or cold- with milk and flavors added; vanilla, chocolate, caramel, that sort of thing. You can just have plain coffee if you don’t like fancy stuff.”

The look of vague horror had not left his face. “What are you getting?”

“I like mine black and hot,” Max replied. “Good for keeping up and alert during late night study sessions.” It was also how former Chief of the Turks, Veld Dragoon took his coffee, but Max wasn’t about to admit who her favorite Shinra figurehead had been. Most of her age group had swooned over Sephiroth and his friends, but Max had always preferred the Turks.

“Okay,” Nero nodded. “That sounds good.”

“They have a really good dark roast,” Max went on, leading the way to get in line. Nero followed right behind, and leaned to inspect the pastry case.

“You hungry?” she asked. “They have pastries, fruit, sandwiches… Get whatever you want. My treat.”

Behind his mask, the smile he gave her seemed amused, but he didn’t disclose whatever he thought was so funny. Nero let his eyes sweep over the case of treats once more, then turned and shrugged. “I’m okay.”

Sure he was. Guys his age tended to have the annoying ability to eat whatever the hell they wanted, as much as they wanted, and not gain an ounce. Also, Nero was a SOLDIER. The odds were high that he was, in fact, snackish and just trying to be polite. Deciding that a true friend pretended that they wanted the dessert and then let their friend eat it, Max ordered two black coffees and a slice of cake with two forks. After a moment’s thought, she also ordered a cup of ice and snagged a drinking straw before leading the way back to their table.

“Careful,” she warned as they sat down. “I got some ice in case it’s too hot. I always have to wait at least ten minutes before I can drink it. I grabbed a straw too, if you want.”

“Thanks,” Nero told her, and unwrapped the straw, plunking it into his coffee. He took an experimental sip and squinted.

“Too hot?” she asked.

“No, it’s just a lot stronger than I’m used to,” he said, eyeing the contents of his cup. “It’s really good!”

“Good. Have some cake,” she smiled, sliding the plate of cake closer to him and taking a bite herself.

“Okay.” Undoing one of the catches on his mask, Nero took a fork and poked at the cake experimentally.

Max operated under the rule that if it wasn’t chocolate, it wasn’t dessert. The cafe’s triple chocolate torte was not for the faint of heart- or blood sugar- but she had confidence in Nero. Cutting off a tiny bite, Nero maneuvered it under his mask and into his mouth. She had the satisfaction of watching his eyes drift closed, a low “mmm…” escaping through his mask.

“Good?” she prompted.

“Wow…” was all he managed at first. “This’s _really_ good!”

“Good!” Max let him snack in peace for a few minutes. One should never get between another person and their chocolate. After a moment Nero remembered that she was there, and offered her a somewhat sheepish look. “Sorry. Here, you have some.”

Max took a companionable bite of cake, chewed, and swallowed before asking: “So what were you doing in the training simulator? You thinking of joining the WRO?”

“No,” Nero replied. “I already tried the regular army and...that didn’t work out. Veld and Vincent thought I might do better with the Turks.”

It wasn’t easy to suppress a twinge of jealousy. Another bite of cake helped. Max had long fangirled the Turks while her contemporaries were drooling over SOLDIERs. Sephiroth was unbearably cool, but operating on your own wits and skill without mako to bolster you physically was a whole other level of badass in her mind. The university degree she was currently pursuing was important, she knew that, but some part of her still entertained vague, deluded hopes of wearing the distinctive blue suit herself.

“So you were really kicking butt in the simulator,” she said. “How’d you do the thing with the shadows? Can you show me?”

“Oh, er, well, I um…” he stammered, glancing around at the half-full cafe. “Maybe later? It might freak someone out. The shadows just do what I want them to. I’m not sure I could really explain it.”

“It’s a Deepground thing, then. Were you some sort of secret weapon?”

“I don’t think so?” He didn’t sound convinced. “They just tried something different with me. My brother and sister were given light mako, I was given dark. I guess it didn’t work, because they didn’t try it again.”

“Looked pretty effective to me,” said Max, stirring her coffee to cool it off. “Must be nice to have both a brother and a sister. I always wanted at least one, but I’m an only. Are they trying out for the Turks, too?” Sometimes it seemed like everyone got the chance to try, except her, which was so not fair.

Nero paused, sipped his coffee, stared intently at the table top. “No,” he said, voice low and flat. “I haven’t found them yet.”

“Hey, I’m sorry,” she said. Why hadn’t Veld mentioned that? “Well, they’re looking for them, right? I know there was talk about going in to find any survivors. If they’re anything like you, they must be okay. They’re probably helping out the rest of the survivors.”

“I don’t know,” he said without looking up. “I haven’t gone looking for a day or two. I’m worried about them. I mean you’re right, they’re both way stronger and smarter, they’re probably fine. I just… I’m worried. I can’t help it.”

“Yeah, I get that. I’d be worried if it was my family.” She leaned toward Nero, lowering her voice. “Nero, are you...I guess this is none of my business, and you can say so if you want to….but are you related to Vincent? You look so much like him - what I can see, anyway.”

Nero shrugged. “I dunno. That’s kinda what I thought, but there’s no real way to tell. Both he and Veld have been really nice, though.”

“Veld’s cool. I’ve known him forever. Vin is okay, even if he is a little squirrelly sometimes.” She pushed the cake plate toward Nero. “You finish it. It’s too rich for me.”

“Okay,” Nero agreed, only too happy to comply. “May I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Are you a JANE?”

Max blinked “A what now?”

“A female SOLDIER.”

“Women don’t go into SOLDIER. They can’t handle the treatments, everybody knows that.” She smiled so he wouldn’t think she was being snarky. “At least as far as I know. Why would you think I was a SOLDIER?”

“Well, Argento’s a JANE, and so is Shelke. Some girls can take it, though you’re not wrong, most of them can’t.” Having finished the cake, he put down his fork and pointed at her ponytail. “Your hair.”

Automatically, she put a hand up to touch her hair. “What about it? Did I get cake in it?”

“No, it’s blue, almost the same color as Azul’s.” He leaned sideways, trying to peer behind her bangs. “Your eyes aren’t glowing, though…”

“Oh, you mean like a SOLDIER’s?” She widened her eyes, grinning. “How’s that? Never mind, they won’t glow. The blue on my hair’s just decoration. I like to color it. Might do green next time, or maybe purple.”

She drank the rest of her coffee, peering at him over the rim of the cup. His eyes glowed, as hers did not; deep gold, like ancient coins. Imagine giving a baby dark mako! And yet it didn’t seem to have hurt him; quite the opposite. Except…what she could see of the skin around his mask did look a little rough and scaly. 

So did his hands, now that she looked more closely. Tentatively, she touched his hand with one finger. “Does this hurt?”

He flinched at her touch, more from surprise than pain. “No,” he told her, the response automatic. Max gave him a sceptical look and then eyed his hands more closely. His nails and fingertips were blackened as if they’d been burnt, or suffered a minor case of frostbite. Like someone with chilblains, his knuckles were cracked and crusted with dried blood. The unscarred skin of his hands was dark and rough compared to that of his face. He definitely needed to moisturize.

“I’m not so much with UV rays,” he said by way of an explanation.

That fit with what little she knew of Deepground. An underground complex of laboratories, research facilities, and combat training grounds, it was said that Deepground’s denizens never came up to the surface unless ordered to. 

Combine that with dark mako, and shadows...it clicked.

“I guess SPF 50’s not gonna do the trick, huh,” she mused. “You need to stay in the dark, or at least out of direct sun. Do you still need mako treatments? ‘Cause there’s not a lot of it around, although I happen to know they’ve got some in the WRO labs, for research.”

“I’ve got mako,” Nero said, pulling his sweatshirt sleeve back to show the ragged edge of some sort of undergarment. “Weiss calls it a ‘wet suit’, which is true. It circulates dark mako over my skin. My hands are just messed up ‘cause I tore the sleeves off. They used to be a lot longer.” He pushed the hoodie sleeve back down. “If I need more dark mako, I know where to find it. There’s lots of it down in Deepground.”

Talking with Nero was definitely more educational than any of her classes. She should be taking notes. He could almost be an extra-credit project all on his own.

“Hey,” she said, an idea popping fully-formed into her mind. “You know what, the lab could totally whip up a gel or something you could use on your hands. Especially if we could get more mako so they don’t have to use their limited supply. In fact…”

She glanced around. No sign of Veld, not that she’d be likely to see him if he didn’t want to be seen, but surely he had better things to do than spy on Nero and Max. He knew she could be trusted not to do anything stupid.

“We should absolutely get some more dark mako,” she decided. “What do you say?”

“Um, okay,” Nero seemed a bit nonplussed at this suggestion, but stood and grabbed his empty coffee cup. Without further comment, he strode out into the hall, trusting that she would catch up. This time he didn’t check his pace for her, and Max had to trot to keep up with him. After a moment, Nero stopped in front of a propped open door, the tall square of wood casting a deep wedge of shadow behind it. Turning, he offered his hand.

“You might want to hang on.”

Max took his hand, his skin so rough and prickly it didn’t feel real, and let him pull her toward and then _into_ the shadows. Her breath stopped in her throat as the darkness closed in on every side. Looking over her shoulder, she could see the narrow slice of brightly lit hallway slowly receding as Nero pulled her along. Panic surged up inside her and then her boots crunched on gravel. A dim purple light rose up, outlining stalagmites with an eerie luminescence. Their footsteps echoed loudly off of distant walls, and water dripped, magnified, in the distance. The cool, damp air confirmed her suspicions: they were in a cave.

It took a few impatient seconds for her eyes to adjust. Max peered through the gloom, trying hard to pick out each individual detail. There was more than just organic stone down here. Indeed, quite a lot of it seemed architectural, though it was hard to be certain. Nero had stored a few personal items here: a couple of airtight food storage containers, a small stack of books, and a neatly folded blanket that was so thin and ragged she would not have given it to a dog shelter.

The blacklight glow of the dark mako drew her forward once Nero had dropped her hand. A pond of dark mako sat in what she assumed was the center of the cave- it was hard to tell, the walls receding into blackness a few feet out- illuminating the cave in unearthly indigo light. Nero crouched down and scooped the coffee cup through the surface, filling it with dark mako. Turning, he handed it to her.

“Like I said, there’s lots.”

She took it, belatedly wondering how she was going to explain where she’d gotten it. Waltzing into the lab with a mug full of mako, especially dark mako, would generate a lot of questions.

Well, her professors were always urging their students to be creative. Maybe she could pull a Dragoon and just tell the lab supervisor that it was classified information. 

She set the mug down carefully on a flattish rock. “We don’t have to go back right away,” she told Nero. “If you want to just jump in there for a bit, I’ll wait.”

“Thanks,” Nero said, turning his back on her. The darkness descended upon him, enveloping him like a cloak and then rushing away just as suddenly, taking his clothes with it. He stood for half a breath, gray-white skin stark even in the low light, before diving in. Max could only stand and stare, one hand pressed over her mouth. She could feel her eyes stretching to their widest, her cheeks burning. It wasn’t that she was a prude, but she hadn’t been expecting random nudity. To be fair, it was unlikely he’d had a pair of swim trunks under his jeans, but she had somehow not seen that coming. Shaking herself, Max approached the edge of the pool and looked down.

Nero had yet to surface. It was difficult to tell how far below he was, the inverse silhouette of his body easily visible yet indistinct in the purple-black liquid. He appeared to he washing his hands, rubbing his arms, probably in attempts to soothe the damage. After a moment he looked up and laid his arms flat against his sides. Legs held together, he undulated rather than kicked as he ascended, and Max found herself looking for a fish’s tail.

Just beneath the surface, he smiled up at her, showing sharp teeth. His mask hung around his neck, floating slightly. Good Gaia, he looked like Vincent.

“You look like a shark in there,” she said. “A really cute shark.” She studied his face; in the murky light, details weren’t as easy to pick out, but the shape of his nose, the way he smiled, the tilt of his head as he looked up at her, all said “Valentine” as clear as could be. So much for Veld’s attempt to be vague about it; anyone could see the resemblance if they got a look at him without his mask.

“Are your hands healing?” she asked, kneeling down to get a better view. 

“Better,” he said, the word seen if not heard. Nero held up both hands which were still in rough shape compared to the rest of him, but were considerably better than they had been. Pulling his mask back up over his mouth and nose, Nero rose above the surface and shook his hair back like a swimmer.

“I don’t know why Deepground went for external exposure, but this is what works,” he commented, watching his skin visibly pull itself back together.

“That means a mako-based gel should work to help heal your skin when you get too much sun exposure,” said Max. “Is there anything you’re allergic to? I have some ideas for emulsifiers, but I wouldn’t want to add anything that will make it worse.”

Nero shook his head. “Light mako’s the only thing that makes me itch. Dark mako makes my siblings itch. Dunno why. You’d think they’d be more compatible, but they’re not. Please don’t go to any extra trouble, I’m okay, really.”

“It’s no trouble. I work in the labs anyway. They’re always messing around with dark mako, trying to find new uses for it.” She picked up the mug, tilting it a bit to watch the purple liquid slosh. It had an odd smell, less oily than light mako, more earthy and astringent. “It will make a good side project. I’m trying to earn as many credits as I can so I can finish my doctorate program early.”

“Okay,” Nero agreed uncertainly, and she wondered if maybe mentioning laboratories wasn’t such a great idea. “If you need more let me know. As you can see, I’ve got lots.” Behind his mask, his cheekbones rose in a smile.

A pause. “...you’re a doctor?”

“Oh, not yet. I’m studying bioengineering. I have to take some medical courses, too, because you can’t mess around with the body without knowing how it works. My major’s in bionics, though, not medicine. I want to work with prosthetics. Things like Veld’s arm.” She scowled. “That arm was innovative in its day, but now it’s just pathetically outdated. It’s like having a robot arm attached. He needs a new one, something that’s fully integrated with his nervous system and circulatory system and…”

She stopped, realizing she’d been rambling. “Sorry. I could talk all day about bionics. Didn’t mean to bore you to sleep.”

His smile was still in place. “No, it’s okay, I don’t mind. We had tutors and stuff, but that was back when we were still pretty little. The phrase I heard all the time was ‘we’re not payin’ you to think’.” He rolled his golden eyes. “Like they were paying us at all. I’m pretty sure nobody got paid down there. Maybe the people in the labs; the doctors and admin staff. I have no idea.”

The smile faded and he sank in the mako a bit, apparently regretting his own brief ramble. “Sorry. I also got told I talk too much.”

“Well, that’s something we have in common,” Max said, sitting back on her heels. “You’re gonna get all wrinkled in there, y’know. Maybe we should get back to HQ? Veld’s going to be wondering where we are, eventually.”

Nero’s eyes widened in alarm. “Shit! You’re right. I forgot!”

Hurriedly, he climbed out of the pool, shadows rushing forward and twisting round him once again. Max didn’t even have time to avert her eyes. Before she could look away, Nero stood dressed in the jeans, sweatshirt- and mako suit- he’d had on earlier. With both hands he wrung out his long hair.

“Ready?” he asked, holding out one had to her. The skin looked freshly healed, the rough patches softened and paler than they had been. However, the air was already oxidizing it dark gray, turning it dry and scaly again.

“Hey, it’s okay, Nero,” said Max, taking his hand. “Veld’s grumpy but he’s not violent. Well, not unless it’s work-related. He’s not going to hurt either of us for being a little late.”

Nero didn’t reply, just pulled her along through the darkness. Max had to stumble to keep up, and didn’t have time to feel claustrophobic before Nero led them out into the blinding light of the WRO hallway. Funny, the old fluorescent lighting strips had always seemed dim and dingy before this. It was several seconds before she could slit her eyes enough to see. When she finally managed to look up, Nero appeared to be having similar problems.

“I should get going,” he remarked, squinting at the clock on the wall. “Thanks for the coffee. It was nice meeting you.”

“You, too. Hey, I work in the labs here every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. I get a break around four o’clock. D’you want to meet me here for coffee again next Tuesday? We can trade stories about awful professors.”

“I would,” Nero said, smiling, and then checked himself. “As long as Veld say it’s okay.”

“He will.” And if he didn’t, she’d talk him into it. She knew her way around the old Turk. Well, most of the time. “Thanks for getting the mako. I’ll get back to you about the gel.”

“It’s okay, really,” he assured her and glanced at the clock again. “I gotta go. See you then.” Rather than taking off down the hall, he ducked back into the shadow and vanished.

Max blinked, but he was definitely gone. She looked at the mug of mako in her hand, and grinned. This day had been crazier than usual, but in a good way. She’d have to remember to thank Veld.


	16. Training Exercise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As previously mentioned, Nero is somewhat over-qualified for this position.  
> Also, old habits die hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra special props to Razzie on this one. This is "her" Vincent and I love her take on him and his headmates.

There were twelve other recruits who had survived the initial cut, Nero making a baker’s dozen of them. Vincent made a joke about lucky number thirteen, which made Nero snicker. Evidently Deepground had not been entirely devoid of humor. The first round of testing was mundane enough, and involved a great deal of forms and papers to be filled out. The medical exam left the nurse assigned to Nero somewhat stymied, though Nero was compliant enough. The blood and other metrics told them everything-- and nothing.

“SOLDIER blood is its own creature,” the nurse lamented. “The Jenova overrides all else. It’s impossible to tell even what blood type he is.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Tseng asked, even as he accepted the folder of papers. “I’m not his blood relative or power of attorney.”

“He’s technically a biohazard,” the nurse explained. “He’d be required to report it himself. Besides, he’s a SOLDIER, and it’s not exactly a secret these days how they got their strength.”

“No,” Tseng agreed, “it isn’t.”

“I’ve advised him of the personal precautions he must take,” the nurse went on. “He seemed very willing. I don’t believe he’ll be any trouble.” So far, it was true.

\--

Nero had been right. He wasn’t much good with firearms. He _could_ be if he practiced, he had a good eye, but whatever nonsense the Restrictors had fed him made it impossible for him to hold anything steady, even with two hands. After accidentally warping two pistols- one into a toilet in the men’s locker room, and the other inside the tank of the water cooler in the break room- Rude gave up and allowed Nero to step back. With the weapons part of the training over, Veld watched as the parameters were reset on the training simulator and the new recruits took up positions for the hand-to-hand portion.

This would be the second time Nero would be pitted against non-Tsviets. There had been blood the last time, and Veld hoped there would not be a repeat performance. Now that the troops had some idea of what they were up against, Nero was having a harder time keeping them all at bay. Veld had been a little nervous at first, and still couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that this could all go very bad, very quickly.

“Don’t kill anyone,” Veld had reminded Nero in no uncertain terms. “You don’t get extra points for drawing blood. Someone taps out, you let them. Try not to hurt anyone if you can avoid it. Got it?”

Nero had nodded and given him a short, military “Yessir” before taking his place inside the arena.

Word had gotten around about the new recruit who fought with shadows. The volunteers included Turks, as well as a couple of former SOLDIERs. No one received mako these days, but those who had survived the debacle with Sephiroth and his cadre were still physically impressive. These combatants would not be so easy to toss around.

The buzzer sounded and the sharp ping of paintballs firing from those who wielded guns began almost immediately. Rather than dodge, Nero held up one hand, a huge hole opening in the space immediately before him, swallowing the the little paint pellets into solid, black nothingness. The troops blinked, but quickly shook off their surprise. Those with swords or mag rods rushed him, those with long-range weapons hanging back. The group had come to the unspoken decision to attack him as a unit, but Nero didn’t seem to be having much trouble with the more organized assault.

Most of his tactics focused on defense. He’d yet to lay a hand on anyone, instead using his shadows to trip and trap them, opening holes for people to fall into or run through, only to come out somewhere else. A couple of times he was forced to fire a volley of magic- what kind Veld couldn’t tell, except the charge was blue-black and sparkling with electricity- when someone got too close.

After a minute or two, they seemed to be at something of an impasse. Nero stood half-crouched, waiting, both hands engulfed in swirling blackness. The troops- Turks and SOLDIER veterans alike fell back, wondering what to do. Rather than wait for him to attack, one of the SOLDIERs rushed him while the others opened fire. Before Veld could call foul, one of the Turks had leaped the barrier and flipped on the flood lights. Nero shouted- either in pain or surprise, it was difficult to tell- cowering under the harsh glare. They’d found his weakness and exploited it. Nero was defenseless- or so they’d thought.

The SOLDIER raised his practice sword as if to strike and Nero ducked and dodged like an acrobat, long body twisting at an impossible angle before he abruptly lunged at the SOLDIER. It took Veld a moment to realize Nero had seized the thin black shadow of the SOLDIER’s sword. He held it in both hands, a corporeal weapon of solid darkness. The SOLDIER didn’t even blink, but met him blow for blow. Nero did not have the grace or technique of Sephiroth or Genesis, but he was fast and wily. The SOLDIER bore down on him, his greater ability with a sword forcing Nero back towards a corner. Abruptly Nero seized the shadow in both hands and yanked, pulling the single shadow blade apart into a pair of machetes. Not expecting this, the SOLDIER stumbled back as Nero struck once, twice--

“ _NERO, NO!_ ”

Veld leaped over the barrier, the emergency buzzer already blaring as the SOLDIER collapsed to the floor, twin blades of perfect blackness sticking out of his chest. Nero jumped at the shouting, snapping back to reality. In horror he looked at the gasping, bleeding SOLDIER, at Veld racing toward him, and the medical squad streaming in through the doors behind him. One of them shut off the floodlights. The moment the lights went out, Nero crossed his arms over his chest and vanished, dropping through a hole in the floor. Veld barely had time to grab a hank of hair and dive in after him before the puddle of void closed over his head.

They tumbled hard to the gravelly floor of a dim cavern. Nero scrabbled back and away, stumbling over himself in his hurry to get to his feet. Veld held on, convinced that if he let go, the boy would disappear and he’d never see him again.

“I’m sorry!” Nero blurted, trying to wrestle away. “It was an accident!”

“Dammit, hold _still!_ ” Veld grunted, latching onto the kid’s arm. Strangely, Nero froze, still half-crouched on the ground.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, voice small.

“Gods damn it Nero, I _told_ you not to kill anyone!” Veld heard himself growl, voice magnified into a shout by the vaulted roof of the cavern. “What the hell did you even do?”

“I don’t know! I’m sorry!” The kid was on his knees, arms crossed over his chest like a sinner come to confess. “I didn’t mean to, I swear! It won’t happen again! Please don’t hurt Vincent…”

“I-- ” Veld broke off, all oxygen sucked from his lungs. He’d had a lecture prepared- not a chew-out per se, but definitely a stern talking-to- but now he could not remember a single word.

“Hurt Vincent?” he repeated. “Why in the name of Alexander…?”

Nero got to his feet, eyes terrified, but stance military straight. “It was my mistake. I forgot. I’m the one to blame. I’m the one who should be punished.”

It took Veld a moment to find the words, and another minute to get his jaw to work. “Nero...I’m not going to hurt Vincent.”

Clearly, Nero did not believe that. Cautiously, slowly, Veld took a step toward him.

“Vince and I shout. We argue, but we don’t mean anything by it. I’d never hurt him, and he’d never hurt me. I’m real fond of him, we’ve been together for a long time. I’m not gonna hurt him, and I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“It’s okay,” Nero insisted. “I can take it.”

“The only thing you’re gonna take is responsibility,” Veld told him not unkindly. “Warp your ass- and mine- back to the surface so you can tell that SOLDIER you’re sorry. You owe him that much.”

“So _he’s_ going to punish me,” Nero said with an air of one who hadn’t been following but now understood.

“No,” Veld said after counting to ten. Backwards. In Costan. “No one is going to punish you. We have the whole thing on tape. You’re right, it _was_ an accident, but you’re going to have to go through all the protocols to verify that. Believe me, all the paperwork is punishment enough.”

“You’re sentencing me to....paper?” Nero looked beyond confused. Veld fought the urge to facepalm.

“Nero,” Veld began, coming closer, “we don’t treat our troops like that. Yes, we do punish them sometimes, but it usually involves extra pushups or cleanup duty in the kitchens or the latrines. Hurting the people you’re training to keep you safe is a damn stupid way to do business.”

Nero nodded, his eyes betraying his lingering confusion. Veld sighed.

“C’mon, let’s go back to the arena. I’ll help you sort this out, okay?”

Reluctantly, Nero nodded. “Okay.”

\---

As Veld disappeared into the void, Vincent’s fragile grip on his headmates shattered. He’d shaken off a moment’s paralysis when the SOLDIER fell to Nero’s twin blades, following Veld into the arena, but his hesitation cost him precious seconds--just enough time for Veld to be swallowed up by shadow.

Vincent skidded to a halt on the spot where Nero and his partner had vanished. Behind him, EMTs worked on the injured man, ignoring Vincent entirely. He spun around, searching the arena and the area outside of it for any sign, Galian’s vision penetrating the shadowed corners. He knew it was illogical - Nero and Veld had dropped out of sight seemingly straight through the floor - but he couldn’t help it. 

They were gone, gods knew where. Gone, into the night, out of sight, _not right, not right…!_

_Oh gods, not now! Mask, no...don’t…._

Hellmasker took control, shoving Valentine to the back of his mind. He scanned the group gathered around the SOLDIER and the crowd of spectators beyond the ropes. There was blood, just enough to spice things up, and if he had any say in the matter, there would be more, oh yes, but it would be black, not red...

He started, jumping backward as the shadow-mage popped up out of nowhere, one hand towing another man behind him - a familiar man with amber eyes and silver-bronze hair. 

“Mine,” Mask growled. Bronze-Veld belonged to _him_ , not to some bastard shadow-mage out of hell!

Bronze said something to the mage in a low voice, to which the mage nodded, his eyes wide and scared. Bronze stepped away from him, approaching the EMTs. 

“How is he?”

One of them looked up. “Stable, Sir. We stopped the blood loss. We’ve got a Cure ready to go, he’ll be fine.”

Mask forgot about them and leaped. 

The mage went down under him with a startled grunt. A knife popped out from under Mask’s sleeve, sliding into his hand, its point just grazing the mage’s throat. 

Eyes wide and yellow as a cat’s stared into his, and then two strong hands grabbed Mask by the back of his collar and yanked.

“Vincent, no! Get off him!”

Mask snarled, spinning around to face Bronze. “Don’t touch me! Not your turn!”

Bronze blinked. “Valentine?”

Mask hissed, struggling to free himself. Bronze had made him drop the knife, his precious knife that he’d hidden so carefully, where had it gone..? The mage was moving, somewhere behind him, he felt the tug on his own shadow, he needed that knife...ah, there it was right at his feet!

“Nero, stay!” Bronze barked at the mage, and the furtive movement behind Mask stilled. Bronze shook him, hard.

“Mask, get the fuck out. I don’t need you messing things up even more than they are.”

“He took you!” Mask snapped. “Not his to take. Let me GO!” 

Mask twisted free, scooping up the knife and turning back toward the mage. Bronze seized hold of his braided hair. Spitting curses, Mask swung a fist. 

Bronze dodged it easily and slapped him hard across the face. Twice.

Mask froze, panting, fell to his knees. He dropped the knife, dropped his face into his hands.

“Veld...oh gods, I thought you were gone. I’m sorry!”

“Vincent?”

He looked up. “Wha...yes. Of course.”

Veld studied him for a moment, body still poised to fight, his foot pinning the knife flat to the floor. 

“All right.” He reached, gave Vincent a hand up. “Out. Go wait in your office, or mine, I don’t care which, just get out of here.”

“But...Nero.” Vincent turned to look at the boy, still crouched a few feet away, eying him warily. “Oh gods, he’ll think I tried to kill him! I didn’t...Mask...It wasn’t _me!_ ”

“Valentine, _go._ ” Veld pushed him toward the exit. “We’ll deal with it later. _Out._ ”

“Yeah. All right. I’m going.” Vincent took a few steps, stopped and looked at Nero. 

“Nero. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please don’t….” His voice trailed off. The words “don’t hate me” never made it out of his mouth. He swallowed them, blinked away the stinging in his eyes, and walked away.

\--

Nero watched Vincent go, golden eyes still huge with fear behind his mask.

“...was that it?” he asked.

Veld could not immediately think of a reply. A moment later, he an idea. A terrible, horrible, awful idea.

“Yes,” Veld told him, only thirty year’s practice keeping his voice calm and even. “The training arena is just for fun. For practice. You don’t need to be afraid for your life here. However, if you break the rules, people are going to be angry with you. Vincent was angry because he thought you’d kidnapped me or hurt me.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie, but it was the most twisted of half-truths and he hated himself for letting Nero think that Mask’s outburst was comeuppance for his mistake. Perversely, Nero relaxed ever so slightly and nodded.

“It won’t happen again,” he vowed.

Veld felt sick. “Good. Come with me.”

The door to Vincent’s office was shut, the door to Veld’s open. Veld left Nero in his empty office with strict instructions to wait there for him. Crossing the hall, he tapped softly on the door with one knuckle before letting himself in.

Valentine looked up, face a picture of distress to match Nero's.

“Veld! Veld, honest to gods, I didn’t mean--” he broke off as Veld pulled him close in a crushing hug. Automatically, Vincent put his arms around him, tightening his grip as Veld buried his face in his shoulder.

“...Veld?”

“He thought I was going to hurt you,” Veld murmured into Vincent's shirt. “Because he messed up, because that SOLDIER got hurt, he thought I was going to take it out on you.”

Vincent said nothing, just held on.

“I had to lie to him,” Veld went on. “He kept going on about being punished. I couldn’t make him understand. He doesn’t believe he won’t be tortured for every little mistake. I told him Mask’s little outburst was his punishment- not for hurting the SOLDIER, but for running away.”

Stepping back a bit, Veld looked up into his partner’s face. Vincent’s red eyes were wide with horror, the expression not so far from Nero’s. After a minute he closed his eyes and nodded.

“I understand.”

“Do _not_ let that happen again,” Veld said, hooking a hand behind Valentine’s neck and pulling him down until their foreheads touched. “Lock him up with your nightmares. Have Gigas sit on him, I don’t much care. Just don’t let him attack the poor kid again.”

“I promise,” Vincent vowed. “I’m sorry. When I saw you vanish through that portal into nothing I just…”

“I’m flattered,” Veld said, the sardonic smile creeping up on its own. “Do you really think he’d hurt me?”

Veld didn’t actually want to know the answer to that. He didn’t _think_ Nero would purposely hurt either Vincent or himself, but today had definitively proved that accidents could and would happen.

“Not on purpose, no,” Vincent agreed.

“Talk to Mask, then talk to Nero. Let’s not have a repeat of today.”

Vincent nodded. “Okay.”

\--

“Nero?”

The kid looked up sharply. Arms crossed over his chest, hands balled into tight fists, he stood where Veld had left him.

“I’m sorry!” he rasped through the respirator, and Vincent swore it wasn’t the mask but a throat tight with held tears that distorted his voice. “I just...I forgot! It was an accident!”

“I know, son,” Vincent said as gently as he could. He wanted to pull the boy into his arms and hold him tight, but he fought the instinct back. Nero wouldn’t understand the gesture as Vincent intended it, and he didn’t want to frighten the poor kid worse than he already had. “It wasn’t fair of us to throw you into the ring like that. You’re not used to playing for fun.”

Nero nodded and looked hesitantly up at Vincent through his bangs. “Are you...okay? He said that was all he would do. Did he mean it?”

It took Vincent a moment to puzzle out what Nero was talking about. And then it clicked. The double slap to the face. Mask had seized control, and the only way to get Vincent back in the driver’s seat had been a physical smack upside the head. Nero was used to being punished for other people’s mistakes. This time, the mistake had been Nero’s, and so he expected Vincent to pay the price for his error. He had completely dismissed Mask’s attempt on him. Nero thought the slap was the punishment.

“I’m fine,” Vincent managed, wondering if he ought to perpetuate the lie that Veld had started. Oh gods, where to even start? “Nero...Veld wasn’t punishing me for what you did. He did it so I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Huh?” Nero was clearly perplexed.

“Sit down?” Vincent pulled one of the hard-backed visitor’s chairs over and took the other one for himself. Obediently, Nero sat.

“That’s...that’s not how we do things up here,” he began, trying to keep Veld’s words in mind. Reminding Nero that his entire life to date was ‘wrong’ wasn’t going to help anything. “If I fuck up, I take the heat for my own mistakes. No one’s going to come after you or Veld if I do something stupid. Also, nobody up here is going to make you bleed just because you messed up. Everyone makes mistakes. Nobody gets it right on the first try. It’s okay to mess up.”

Nero just stared at him with an intent and earnest expression, clearly trying to make sense of what was being told him. He wasn’t dumb, but the concept was too alien for him to fully believe.

“We both messed up,” Vincent went on. “You forgot yourself and stabbed that SOLDIER. That was as much my and Veld’s fault as it was yours. We threw you into a combat simulation knowing it was a possibility that you’d forget and just react, and that’s exactly what happened. No,” he said, holding up a hand as Nero began to apologize yet again. “It is not all your fault. We knew better, and we did it anyway. You just did what you’ve been trained to do. I’ll bet you never even practiced with a dull sword or shot blanks.”

Nero shook his head. “No. Not since I was little. We always used sharps and live ammo.”

As much to repress his internal screams as to hide the twisted expression of livid anger, Vincent rubbed his face with his hands.

“Well, we don’t use sharps or live ammo when we practice, okay?”

“Okay,” Nero agreed, taking every word to heart.

“Veld went after you because he was afraid you’d run and we’d never see you again. I went after you because I thought you’d hurt Veld.”

The kid tilted his head to one side, both curious and confused. “Why would I hurt Veld?”

“Well, see, that wasn’t what I thought of first,” Vincent admitted. “Veld and I go way back. I’ve lost a lot of people in my life. Just about everyone except Veld, really. I’m a lot older than I look. Anyway, when I saw you two disappear I just...snapped. I’m a different person when I get like that. I wasn’t myself when I went after you. You’re okay, right?”

“Yeah, fine,” Nero said amiably.

“Okay, good. I’m not fun to be around when I get like that. Veld had to smack me upside the head to snap me out of it. That is the _only_ reason he hit me, and it wasn’t to cause me pain so much as to bring me to my senses. Do you understand?”

“Kind...of…?” Nero hedged. “So...if I mess up….I’ll be punished directly?”

Inwardly, Vincent sighed. “Yes. And you will not be punished severely. Like I said, we don’t want to hurt you, we just want to make sure that you won’t do the same stupid thing twice in a row.”

The boy nodded slowly, digesting this. “Okay,” he said at last, and Vincent felt as if he might have made some semblance of progress. “...am I still in trouble?”

“Not per se,” Vincent assured him. “You’re still gonna have to make a statement to the WRO inquiry board, and you need to apologize to the SOLDIER. Outside of that...Veld might sentence you to scrubbing pots for a week. Think you can handle that?”

Behind his mask, Nero’s cheekbones lifted in a smile. “Yeah. I can handle that.”


	17. Inquiry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is method to the madness.

This was the second time Veld found himself watching Nero from the other side of a one-way window, Vincent at his elbow. Nero would have to give his statement to the WRO inquiry board just like everyone else. It was routine, but since it was Nero who’d stabbed the SOLDIER, there would be greater scrutiny of his testimony. Given Nero’s cut-and-dried explanation of what had happened with the patrol unit back when he’d first been brought in, Veld couldn’t decide if he was nervous or not.

“It was an accident, sir,” Nero replied to the agent. “I just reacted. It won’t happen again.”

“You were aware that this was a training exercise,” the agent pressed.

“Yes.”

“Yet you deliberately conjured a weapon and stabbed your opponent with it.”

Nero’s hands had crept up to clutch his shoulders. “...yes, sir.”

“Why?”

“I...was defending myself, sir.”

“You were briefed that it was a training exercise. No sharps or live ammo were being used. Why did you deliberately break protocol and inflict bodily harm on your opponent?”

Nero shifted in his seat, clearly wishing he were anywhere else.

“Answer the question,” the agent insisted, and Nero visibly wilted.

“I...I forgot,” he stammered weakly. “I’m used to playing for keeps.”

“In Deepground?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Describe one of these training sessions.”

Nero had sunk into himself, posture rigid, but eyes downcast and attention drawn inward; the only escape he could manage.

“Combat trials are to weed out the weak,” Nero recited, delivering lines beaten in long ago. “The number of victors shall be limited. Those who do not fight will be terminated. No mercy will be shown, no quarter given. Those who survive will merit rank as Tsviet.”

A charged and heavy silence had settled over the interrogation and the office beyond.

“Did you kill these soldiers?”

“Yes,” Nero croaked.

“Why?”

“Those who do not fight will be terminated,” Nero repeated. “If they didn’t fight, the Restrictors would have had them gunned down,” he replied. “If they fought, they'd have a chance.”

The boy was shivering in his seat; Valentine likewise stood vibrating next to Veld, but with rage instead of fear. The agent looked equally aghast.

“Did this ever happen to you?”

Nero swallowed hard- gagged, more like- before attempting to answer. “Twice, Sir.”

“Go on.”

“They did it the first time it was my turn to face them,” he whispered, the words more static than speech. “I couldn’t. So they did. I cried the second time, so they did it again. After that…” Nero paused, took a too-deep breath, swallowed hard. “I just tried to make it quick if I had to. So they wouldn’t suffer.”

Veld could feel the horrified expression on his own face. At his elbow, Vincent was growling, eyes glowing red and fangs bared.

“This was what was going through your head during the training exercise?” the agent asked, having finally recovered his voice.

Nero nodded miserably. “Yes.”

There were more questions to be asked, but they would be better posed by a therapist, and not a member of the WRO inquiry board. There was an exceedingly uncomfortable pause as the agent stared, dumbstruck, at Nero, and Nero stared at the table top.

“Do you have anything else to say?” he asked at length. Nero’s reply was barely audible.

“No, Sir.”

A low growl tore Veld’s attention from the observation window. Vincent was half a step away from tripping a limit break.

“Vince,” Veld said, turning to face his partner. Vincent tried to meet his eyes, his gaze wild and unfocused.

“He needs me,” Vincent protested, the words more whined than spoken.

“Go,” Veld urged. “You’re no good to him like this.”

With a last regretful look at Nero, Vincent turned and vanished out the door. That left Veld to deal with the agent, who looked visibly shaken as he emerged from the interview room. He cast a nervous glance at the boy still sitting in the hard-backed chair, as if afraid he might leap up and try to tear out his throat. Nero’s straightforward testimony had not done anything to help his case, with one small exception: it was fairly obvious the memories did not sit well with him.

“Well?” Veld asked, not sure he wanted to hear the verdict.

“He’s not safe,” the agent said, somewhat breathless.

“He’s a SOLDIER,” Veld shrugged, bravado allowing the illusion of nonchalance. “He’s also been through the mill.”

“Yes,” the agent agreed, gathering himself. “Yes, there is that. I’m not comfortable releasing him until he’s been seen by a professional.”

Veld nodded, he’d suggested as much to Vincent earlier, but circumstances had forced their hand. They’d have to schedule a visit with Cissnei sooner rather than later.

“That’s fair,” Veld agreed. “You okay with releasing him to us until further notice?”

The agent cast a wary look at Nero. “It’s your neck, not mine.”

Veld didn’t spare a glance for him as the little bureaucrat hurried from the room. Having not been dismissed, Nero sat where he’d left him. Telling himself this wasn’t so different from an op gone bad, Veld opened the door to the interview room and went in.

“Hey,” he said quietly, the better to alert Nero to his presence. Crossing the floor, he crouched down in front of him, trying to see past the ragged bangs and into Nero’s golden eyes. “You alright, son?”

Nero looked up a bit, body rigid but eyes frightened. “I mess up, I take the heat for my own mistakes.”

Veld nodded. “That’s right.”

“I will be punished. Not Vincent, not you.”

“Yes.”

Perversely, the boy relaxed slightly. “What’s my punishment to be?”

With a heavy sigh, Veld stood and pulled the other chair over.

“Well, you’re probably banned from the training arena for a start.” Veld offered him a wry smile to show he wasn’t angry. “Outside of that, I imagine it’ll seem light by your standards. I’m not your CO, so it’ll be Tseng who decides what to do with you. In my day it used to mean latrine duty and a lot of book work.”

Nero looked confused, but nodded.

\---

In the alley behind the building, Vincent fought his way back to sanity, crouched on hands and knees. Bloody scraps of fur and tiny bones littered the ground in a wide circle around him. He shuddered, swallowed hard, nearly gagging at the nauseating taste of raw flesh. His anger had receded to dull red embers, and with it, the urge to go full Galian beast on anything that moved.

Still shaky, he went back inside through a side door. In the men’s room, he washed the streaks of blood and other unmentionable detritus from his hands and face, and rinsed his mouth. Taking a deep breath, he made his way back to the interview room.

Veld looked up as he came in. “You okay?”

“Fine,” said Vincent mechanically, “but the local rat population will never be the same.” Veld said nothing, just patted his shoulder, and vacated the chair next to Nero.

Vincent sat down. “Nero?” When the boy looked up, Vincent opened his arms, offering, hoping. Veld caught his eye and gave a quick shake of his head. A little awkwardly, Vincent turned the motion into a tentative pat of Nero’s shoulder, mirroring Veld’s actions. 

“You going to be okay, Nero?”

Nero eyed them both warily, as if not quite sure he could trust what he said.

“Yessir,” he mumbled without unclenching his hands from his shoulders. Nero might believe it, but he was the only one in the room who did.

“It’s alright, kid,” Veld told him gently. “Dismissed. Report back in a few hours, okay?”

Although he did not release his shoulders, Nero practically melted with relief. “Thank you, sir.” Saluting, he edged into the nearest shadow and disappeared.

“Why did you let him go?” Vincent demanded, not a little bit hurt.

“You had your minute, he needed his,” Veld explained. “Give him some time to collect himself. He’ll be alright.” He hoped.

Vincent stared at the shadows as though he could follow Nero with his eyes. “There has to be something more we can do for him. What did the board recommend?”

“That he sees a shrink, to start,” Veld said. “I’m sure they’ll think of more. I can tell to a point when he’s upset, but damned if I know what to do for him. He doesn’t speak our language, and we don’t know his.”

Vincent sighed. “Same thing you suggested. Right again, as usual. I’ll call Cissnei and see when she’s available. Maybe Shelke, too. I could use a few more lessons in Deepground lingo.”


	18. A Talk With Mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent attempts to lay down the law.  
> Darn those loopholes.

Vincent settled on Reeve’s private balcony high on the west side of WRO HQ. Only Veld and Reeve knew he came up here - well, and now Nero did, too - but none of them were likely to come looking for him here. He needed the quiet solitude to have a conversation with Mask.

Hellmasker. Vincent sighed, rubbing his eyes. Of all the headmates to come out during the debacle in the training room, why did it have to be him? How many people had seen him attack Nero, with a knife no less? How many had watched him swing at Veld? The EMTs had been busy working on the fallen SOLDIER, but the other troops, and the Turks, had to have noticed. Gods knew what they thought of him now.

He turned his attention inward. Behind the wall he’d built, brick by brick, to keep Mask confined, Mask crouched, grumbling, mumbling, inventing curses that could flay a dragon. Vincent tapped on the wall. 

“Mask.”

No response, just muttering and hissing. 

“Mask! I’m talking to you!”

“ _Fuck off Valentine!_ ”

“Yeah, no. Shut up and listen to me. You are NOT to attack Nero again, do you hear?”

Mask’s presence crept up close to the wall, his anger bleeding through it. “ _Who, what?_ ”

“Nero. Looks like me, plays with shadows? Leave him alone.”

“ _Shadow-mage,_ ” Mask hissed. “ _He took Bronze! Pretty Bronze, not his to take! I’ll carve him into steak! Kill him, carve him, crush him with stone! Suck the marrow from his bones!_ ”

Vincent reached through the wall, grabbing Mask by the throat. “You’ll do nothing, you hear me? Nothing!”

Mask squirmed in his grip, spitting and thrashing. “ _Let go, you prick! It’s your fault anyway!_ ”

“Is not.”

“ _Is too! Your anger, your fear! You shouldn’t leave them out where I can use them!_ ”

The truth stung. Vincent couldn’t argue with it, but having Mask throw it in his face was too much. He let Mask go, and sat down beside the wall. Gods, why wasn’t he somebody else, alone in his own head, safe and sane? Why was everything so damn complicated?

“Mask, listen.” He’d lost the urge to yell, to make demands or issue ultimatums. “Nero...Nero might be my son. I don’t want to hurt him.”

Silence, and a rustle as Mask shifted. “ _Never. Nuh-uh, no._ ”

“Yes. I’m serious, Mask.”

“ _Shadow-mage is yours?_ ”

“I don’t know for sure. It’s a distinct possibility.” One that felt more certain every day, but Mask didn’t need to know that.

Mask didn’t ask how; his understanding of time was limited. He lived in the moment, his responses flickering like a hummingbird’s wings. Only the most dramatic events made permanent memories, and even then Vincent never knew what his reaction might be.

The fact that he’d begun his existence as a part of Vincent’s mind only twisted things into more of a tangled mess. 

“ _I don’t like him,_ ” Mask stated. Trust him to cut to the chase. Which reminded Vincent of something. 

“I don’t care if you don’t like him,” Vincent said. “And where the hell did you get a knife? I don’t remember putting a knife up my sleeve!”

“ _Not telling,_ ” Mask crooned. “ _You’ll only screech at me, no yelling!_ ”

It was like dealing with a recalcitrant five-year-old. Vincent ground his teeth in frustration. Veld would remember that knife, eventually, and Vincent had no explanation to give him.

“You can’t do things like that! Leave the damn knives alone, or next time I’ll chain you up! Got it?”

“ _What’s it worth to you?_ ”

Vincent blinked. How the hell was his own mind doing this to him?

“I’m not making any deals with you. Leave the knives alone. Leave Nero alone.”

“Or what?” said Mask, his voice low and strained, devoid of the usual sing-song tone. 

Vincent shivered. This was the side of Mask that rarely appeared, the side that couldn’t be reasoned with, cajoled or distracted. This aspect was dangerous, even to him.

Without a second thought he plunged his arm back through the wall, grabbing Mask by the collar, twisting it tight until Mask choked. 

“I’ll cage you,” Vincent hissed. “Chain you like a dog, muzzle your foul mouth, and keep you confined until you forget what daylight looks like.” He smacked Mask’s head against the wall. “Remember, _Hellmasker_. I can do it, you know I can. Keep away from the knives, keep away from Nero, or I will. Make. You. Pay.”

He dropped Mask like a rag. Mask scrambled away from the wall, gurgling and gasping. 

He wasn’t hurt, Vincent knew beyond a doubt. He couldn’t do any real physical damage to a figment of his own imagination, even if said figment had taken on a life of its own. 

He said nothing more, retreating to the outside world. Evening had fallen, and Vincent took a few minutes just to breathe, easing the headache he’d brought on himself. Home, and bed, tucked in as close to Veld as he could get, sounded like heaven. Could he use the shadows to get there…? 

Better not. He didn’t want to startle Veld, who’d already had a rough day. He left the balcony via the stairs; boring, but he’d had more than enough excitement for one day.

Behind the wall, deep inside Vincent’s mind, Mask huddled, murmuring to himself. “ _Don’t touch the knives. Don’t touch the mage. Don’t touch--_ ” He looked up, eyes narrowing. “ _You didn’t say anything about Bronze…_ ”


	19. Proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veld makes an offer Max can't refuse.

Leaving Vincent to talk to Nero, Veld’s first instinct was to head to the nearest bar and have a good, stiff drink.

Dammit, he was too old for this. He should be doing paperwork or yelling at interns, not cosseting trauma victims. The kid wasn’t even his.

Ah, shit, that excuse wouldn’t fly, and he’d kick anyone’s ass who suggested it. He sighed, signaled the bartender for another shot, and downed it in one gulp. Whiskey-fire etched his veins and cleared some of the fog from his brain. He and Vincent needed to talk to some experts, see if they could come up with a way to start easing Nero into what passed for a normal life.

“Hey, boss?”

Veld turned. “Reno. Why are you still calling me ‘boss’?”

“Habit.” Reno took the barstool next to Veld. “Look, I wanna apologize, okay? I shouldn’t have turned the lights on your kid.”

“He’s not my kid, Reno.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, sure. So why’d you do it?”

Reno grinned, half predator and half streetwise brat. “Kid was kickin’ ass and takin’ names. What else were we gonna do?”

He waved a hand at the bartender, saying no more until the man set a beer in front of him. “The guy’s big guns, boss. Where you been hidin’ him?”

“Classified info.”

Reno snorted. “Okay, play that game. You and Valentine keep your secrets. You know we’ll find out eventually.”

“Until you do, that’s all I’m gonna say.” Veld ordered a third drink; hell, he’d earned it. 

“So I heard you and Valentine are sponsoring Nero,” said Reno. 

Veld nodded. That wasn’t a secret; half the WRO knew. He recognized probing when he heard it.

He also knew how to make use of it. “It was Vincent’s idea. After the incident with the street patrol, he got concerned about Nero being at loose ends, as it were. Surface life’s damn different than Deepground.”

Reno snorted. “Ya think? Well, he’ll figure it out.”

“I suppose he will,” said Veld. “Not gonna be easy, though. He’s made a few wrong steps, not knowing any better. We’re trying to look out for him, but we can’t be with him all day and night. If he makes the cut, of course, Tseng will assign someone to ride herd on ‘im.”

“Yeah, Commander’s good like that.” Reno had a swallow of his beer, and another, brows crinkled in thought. 

Another idea came to Veld through the pleasant buzz he’d built up. “Reno, do you know where Max is?”

“Nitro Express?” There was that grin again. “Yeah, she’s up in the labs.”

“Would you mind telling her I want to talk to her? You can send her here, I’ll be staying for a while.”

“Sure thing.” Reno finished his beer, saluted, and sauntered off.

Ten minutes later Max blew in, all black leather and periwinkle hair. And how the hell he even knew the word _periwinkle_ was a thought for another day.

“What’s up, Turkmeister?”

Veld winced. “Sit down, Max.”

“Uh-oh. What’d I do?”

“Why does everyone say that every time I say I want to talk to them?”

“Dunno.” She grinned. “Must be your charm.”

“Yeah, right.” He considered ordering a fourth whiskey, and thought better of it. Three cleared his head; four and up would put him in Sad Old Drunk territory.

“So, how’s university life?”

“It’s fine. I’m acing all my classes, which you already know or you’re not half the Turk you used to be.”

“And you like working in the WRO labs?”

“Well, it’s part of my doctorate program, but yeah. I might do an internship with Dr. Rui.” She poked at his metal arm. “Someday I’m gonna make you a proper prosthetic, so lifelike you can’t tell it from the flesh arm. One that lets you feel, Veld. For real.”

He tossed back the last of his drink. “We’ll see.”

“Okay, so what’s this really about? You didn’t call me down here to talk about uni.”

“Fair enough. Max, I’m going to assume you heard about what happened in the training arena today.”

She nodded, but said nothing. Good; nosy, but discreet. The girl was a contradiction in terms, but okay.

“You seemed to like Nero,” he said.

“Yeah. He’s nice. A little awkward, but it’s kinda sweet.” She winked. “You setting us up, Veld?”

“Max.” She smirked, and he shook his head. “He doesn’t scare you?”

She snorted, rolling her eyes. “It’s more like he’s scared, Veld. Not of me, but everything else? It’s like he just landed from another planet and he’s trying to learn the language and the customs, but nothing makes sense. You know?”

He thought about that, and about the vague idea that had formed in his weary brain.

“Max, you need to understand that he’s actually very dangerous. He’s incredibly powerful. He could hurt you without trying, even make you disappear into shadow. You could be lost for good.”

“You trying to frighten me off? Because it won’t happen.” Max leaned against the bar, legs crossed, one clunky black boot jiggling. “My dad was a SOLDIER. Mom worked with Hojo, saw him go off the rails. I know from danger, Mister Chief-Turk-and-Shinra-Wrangler. I don’t scare easy.”

“Max, I’m serious. This isn’t something you can just throw bravado at.”

“I’m serious, too. Nero’s an enigma, but he’s also a person. He’s just a boy without a family or any friends, except you and Vin, and isn’t that a recipe for more crazy? I mean, Vin tries, but his head’s not always screwed on tight. And you--”

Veld’s eyebrow rose. “Yes? Me?”

She patted his hand. “You’re a good guy, Veld, but you’d put the fear of Alexander into a king behemoth, just by breathing in its vicinity. You scare people. I don’t.”

“Not for lack of trying,” he muttered, but she had a point. Vincent was an emotional wreck more often than not, and Veld himself had cultivated an air of intimidation for so long he couldn’t turn it off if he wanted to.

“All right then, Maia, what do you suggest?”

She scowled at his use of her proper name, but otherwise ignored it. “I’ll be his friend. I mean, if he wants me to be. He’s a nice kid, he just needs some help fitting in.”

“Take it slow, though, won’t you? He grew up in Deepground. His normal is not the same as yours.”

“Yeah. Gods, that had to be rough.”

“You don’t know the half of it. Nero doesn’t either. To him, it was just the ways things were.”

“Okay. I’ll go easy. He did okay having coffee the other day. We can do things like that, and if he wants to talk about old DG, that’s fine. I won’t judge.”

A little of the tension went out of Veld’s shoulders. The girl was far from stupid, and she’d been around Shinra all her life. She could handle this. “Thank you, Max.”

“You’re welcome.” She leaned over, kissed his cheek. “Later, _Ojiichan!_ ”

She ran out again, boots clomping like thunder on the old wooden floors. Having set a few things in motion, Veld ordered that fourth whiskey, because why the hell not?


	20. Hidden Depths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still waters run deep.  
> So does stagnant mako.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanons concerning day-to-day life in Deepground are borrowed heavily from "Haunted House". If it sounds like I'm repeating myself a bit on some stuff, my apologies. Hoping to touch on some new ground, but I'm going to be touching on some older stuff for those who haven't already read ye Epic Ficbeast.

Light mako, dark mako; how were they different? Both came from the Lifestream, or so the scientists said. Max had written a term paper on the research of Doctors Grimoire Valentine and Lucrecia Crescent. She’d worked with both dark and light mako in the WRO lab, analyzing and testing, comparing and contrasting; rather than opposites, they seemed to be more complementary.

Between the myths and rituals of a forgotten age, and the exploitation of mako by the old Shinra Electric Company, Max had found hints of real-world, practical applications that didn’t depend on draining the world dry of every last drop.

She’d been puzzling over how to expand on this, how to explore it, and put it to use. And damned if she hadn’t stumbled onto a source of dark mako, as well as a new and intriguing friend.

Her supervisor at the lab had accepted the mug of dark mako with a bemused expression.

“Where on gaia did you…?”

“A Turk obtained it for me,” said Max, which was almost true. Nero was almost a Turk. And bringing Turks into anything tended to discourage awkward questions. As she’d hoped, the supervisor hesitated, and Max pounced.

“I’ve got a really great idea for a trial,” she said, pulling hastily-scribbled notes out of her backpack. “See, this subject was treated with dark mako in utero.”

“He what now?”

After explaining a bit about Nero’s physiology, the supervisor approved Max’s proposal. She’d have to work on the gel in her free time, which was limited; and anything she produced in the lab became property of the WRO, but that was fine. Reeve wouldn’t deny a medical necessity to Nero. 

That meant, of course, recruiting Nero as a test subject - if the Turks would allow him to do it. He’d have to get medical clearance, and sign a waiver promising to hold the WRO blameless if the gel gave him any adverse reactions - which was unlikely, seeing as he’d been steeped in dark mako since the womb, and a SOLDIER’s constitution could beat hell out of any irritant or allergen on Gaia. 

Minor details. They could be managed.

Max kept the other idea she’d come up with to herself for now. It involved both dark mako and prosthetics, as well as materia and the new polymers the lab was creating. 

For this, she needed more mako. She’d have to go back to the cave.

\--

Like all cadets- WRO, Turk, even the new science department interns- Nero didn’t have a lot of free time. Between reintegration- or in his case, just plain “integration”- classes and Turk training, Max was amazed he even had time to sleep. He had a PHS, but she stupidly hadn’t thought to ask for his number. Still, he was easy enough to spot in the public areas of the WRO. She caught him in the coffee shop, staring down the menu, but not actually in line.

“Thinking of branching out?” she asked, coming up to him.

Nero started, blinked, and smiled behind his mask. “Oh. Hi, Max.”

“What looks good?”

Nero contemplated the board. “I have no idea. I’m not even sure where to start.”

On a whim, Max reached and snagged one of the folded menu brochures from the counter. “Why not try everything?” she suggested. “You can mark off what you’ve tried, and what you liked, and what you didn’t.”

“Good idea,” he agreed, as if she’d just solved all the problems of the world. Max couldn’t help but grin.

The barista jumped slightly as Nero came up to the counter and ordered.

“C’mon,” Nero told her, motioning toward the end of the counter.

“Let me order first,” she told him.

“I already did,” Nero explained. “You like plain black coffee, right?”

“Well, yeah, but recruits don’t get paid much.”

Nero grinned behind his mask. “More money than I’ve ever made in my life. Besides, you bought last time.”

She got the distinct impression the remark was supposed to be funny, but she didn’t feel like laughing. Max managed a smile as Nero collected their coffee and led her over to a table.

“So how’s training?” Max asked him. “I am tartan with envy. I always wanted to be a Turk; might still try to pass the entrance exams once I’m done with school.”

Nero shrugged. “It’s okay. I’ve done a lot of it before. I’m not very good at the subtle stuff, though.”

“Really?” she tilted her head to one side. “I’d have thought you’d be really good at sneaking around.”

“Sneaking, yes,” he agreed. “I’m not so good at telling people what they want to hear, or making them feel comfortable.”

“You’ll get there,” Max assured him. Even if he couldn’t change his physical appearance, she felt confident he could learn the social nuances.

“What about you?” he asked. “What are you working on?

“Remember the mako gel I told you about? They agreed to let me whip something up. Oh, that reminds me.”

She pushed her coffee to one side and hauled her backpack onto the table. Digging in one of the outside pockets, she pulled out a few forms and laid them out flat for Nero to see.

“This is a permission form, sort of.” She pointed to the paragraph at the top. “Read this. If you’re okay with testing the gel on your skin, you sign here and here…” She indicated the signature lines. “...And you check this box to waive any damages that might occur.”

She stopped and looked at Nero. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t really ask you if you wanted to be involved with this, did I?”

Nero was eyeing the forms with a vaguely distrustful look. “This is for the skin cream you were talking about?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

He relaxed visibly. “That’s okay then.” A pause. “Why do I need to sign papers? I mean, you asked. No one’s ever asked before. I was just told to show up.”

Max blinked. “We need your permission to test anything on you. It’s your body. You’re a free citizen, Nero. You can even say ‘no’ if you don’t want to do this. I just….when I saw the damage the sun was doing to your skin, I thought, we should be able to fix that. But it’s really up to you.”

She shuffled the papers around. “I’m sorry. I’m kinda pushy, I know. I just wanted to help.”

“You really _don’t_ have to go to any special trouble,” Nero insisted, “but if you want to…” He trailed off awkwardly, studied the table a moment, and pulled out a pen. Before Max could protest, he’d hastily scrawled ‘Nero Sable’ on each dotted line. His handwriting was every bit as bad as Vincent’s. Weird.

“Read it through, okay?” Max said. “I want you to know what you’re getting into. It’s not gonna be needles or surgery, nothing invasive. Just topical application of the gel.” 

She wasn’t really sure what had happened in Deepground, but the fact of Nero’s existence made it plain they hadn’t followed accepted scientific standards.

“The forms are just basically covering the WRO’s butt. If anything were to go wrong, they don’t want you to sue them. But the labs here are fanatic about safety regulations. You can back out of this at any time.”

“Okay,” Nero nodded, a slightly perplexed expression lingering in his eyes. “I trust you. I just think it’s weird that you’re asking. I mean, I’m Shinra property. Although Vincent did mention there’s no Shinra anymore. I’m not sure if that makes me WRO property or not. Either way, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Nero.” Max put out a hand, wanting to touch his hand, but he usually flinched when she did that. “You’re not anybody’s property. You can walk away from any of this, any time you want to. Nobody’s gonna stop you.”

He still looked as though he didn’t quite believe her. Okay, maybe that was a discussion for another time. “Never mind.”

“You’re just trying to help,” he said, perhaps intending to placate her. A pause. “Do you need more dark mako for your project?”

“Yeah. That mug we got the other day will do for a start, but I have another project in mind. I’m going to need a few gallons, I think. If that’s not too much trouble? You did say there’s a lot down there.”

“There is,” he confirmed. “That one pool is _deep_. I’ve never made it to the bottom, and there are tons of side tunnels. Just let me know when you want to go back. I can take you, no problem.”

“Great!” Max finished her coffee. “Can we go now? I can grab a couple of buckets from the lab on the way out. Unless you’ve gotta be somewhere soon?”

“Nope!” There was a grin behind his mask, she was sure of it. “I don’t have anything else scheduled for today. I think Vincent wanted me to report at some point, but that’s not until close of business. I’m ready when you are.”

Max slung her backpack over her shoulder. “Come on, we’ll go by the back stairs and duck into the lab for a minute.”

She led him to a rear corridor and up a dimly-lit set of stairs for two flights. Opening the door at the top let them into what was clearly a laboratory, filled with gleaming steel counters, computers, cabinets, all of the usual equipment; no one was in the room at the moment. Max opened a cabinet under the counter and pulled out two large plastic buckets.

“All set! Let’s go.”

Nero surveyed the lab, which was too brightly-lit to be of any use to him. Trying the knob on one of the storage closets, he found it unlocked and suitably dark.

“This’ll work,” he decided, and extended a hand. Max closed her fingers around his and followed him into the darkness.

The transition was less jarring this time, but no less creepy. Just as she was beginning to feel suffocated, the blackness lightened, illuminated by soft indigo light. Faint ripples in the pool reflected dimly off the stalagmites and outcroppings of stone. Nero appeared to have left his blue suit in the tunnel of shadow. All he had on now was the skin-tight gray suit she’d seen him wear in the training simulator. Taking one of the buckets from her, he scooped it through the mako and lifted it, brimfull, onto the gravelly cavern floor.

Max copied this with the second bucket, setting hers down beside his. That would do for a start. She’d better get that proposal printed and handed in to the lab supervisor.

“Okay, thanks.” She looked around the cavern, squinting a bit as she tried to make out shapes in the darkness beyond the glow of the pool. Nearby, she could just make out the shapes of Nero’s few personal belongings. He’d said he spent time here, in this hole beneath the world, alone. How sad. 

“What do you do down here? I know you said you explored some of the tunnels.” She peered down into the murky depths of the mako pool. “What’s down there, anyway?”

Nero shrugged. “Not much. I’d sneak down here if I didn’t want to be bothered. Mostly I’d sleep, or just hang out.” He eyed the plastic food containers and the folded blanket as if ashamed of them. “There’s some stuff down there, but it’s mostly statues, bits of stairs, things like that. No animals or anything. It’s not like a regular cave pool.”

“So it’s not just a hole filled with mako?” Max had studied what research existed on dark mako, and had only begun working with it in the labs recently. She’d certainly never gone swimming in it. It had never occurred to her that anything might be hidden in the deeps.

“I’d love to see it. Can you show me?”

“Sure!”

Max had an idea of what was coming this time, but it still took her briefly by surprise. The wash of shadows, and then Nero’s long body all too visible in the darkness before he dove in. It occurred to her that she really ought to have brought a bathing suit. Note to self for next time. Although Nero didn’t seem too fussed about his own lack of clothing, she wasn’t sure she was ready to bare all herself. 

She settled for stripping down to her underwear. Sitting on the edge of the pool, she slipped into the mako. Without knowing where all of the rocks were, it seemed a lot safer than diving in as Nero had. 

“Lead the way!”

Nero floated just under the surface, mask dangling around his neck. Turning, he dove deeper. There was a bit of a ledge a few feet below the surface, but it dropped off sharply into an abyss of deep purple-blue. It should have been dark, should have been black as Nero’s shadows, the way water was at great depths, but the mako shone with a light all its own. The only hindrance to visual details was distance.

Max felt somewhat less than elegant as she awkwardly paddled after Nero’s undulating strokes. It was a running joke that SOLDIERs- because of their incredibly dense muscle mass- tended to do all their swimming six inches below the water line. Perhaps Nero was just used to this; had done it so often that he’d become a good swimmer. It was just as hard to keep up with him swimming as it was walking. He must have realized he’d left her behind for he paused and turned. Max did her best to keep her eyes on his face.

“Sorry,” he apologized, and Max noted that sound carried well, and without the usual bubbly distortion of water. “You’ll like this.”

He led her over to a lower shelf that glittered in the dim light. At first she thought it might be mineral deposits, or a bed of growing materia crystals. However, upon closer inspection, beneath a thick crust of solid purple materia were hundreds and hundreds of pieces of jewelry. Rings, earrings, brooches, bracelets, pendants, and several objects she couldn’t identify. Each and every one had been broken in some way. She recognized a few pieces as similar to photographs in her history books. This was all Ancient Cetran jewelry intentionally damaged as votive offerings.

“There’s more farther down, but most of it is right here. I guess not too many people bothered to lob anything out to the center of the pool,” Nero said by way of explanation.

“This is amazing,” Max said, running her fingers over the smooth crust of materia. “Do you know how old this stuff is? Offerings to the gods,” she added in a hushed tone. “Just imagine. All of this once belonged to people who lived thousands of year ago. And now, people are walking around on the surface right over this, and they don’t even know it’s here.”

“You think?” Nero asked, eyeing the fragments of gold and silver as if seeing them for the first time. “I figured they were old with all the materia built up over them, but I never thought this stuff went _that_ far back. I’ve never found an outlet for this cave. If there was an entrance, it must have gotten blocked.”

“It took a really long time for the materia to form over it,” said Max. “I think this is all Cetran stuff. I’ve seen photos. So that was at least a couple of thousand years ago. I bet historians would love this place.”

Nero did not reply to that right away. “I always just thought of it as my room,” he mused. “I didn’t think any of this stuff was valuable in any way. You wonder why they tossed it in here to begin with. What are the gods going to do with a lot of broken jewelry?”

Max thought back to her old history textbooks. “Well, the idea was that things in the afterlife were the opposite of the way they are here. We’re alive, people in the afterlife are dead. So in this world a thing is broken, but in the next world, it’s whole. Although why anybody in the next world needs jewelry at all, I dunno...I’d think you’d be done with all that material stuff.”

She peered closely at some of the golden objects. Gems glittered under the coat of materia, like Yule lights under ice. “These are really pretty. I hope the gods appreciated the effort these people made.”

“Well, they’re clearly not using any of it,” Nero observed. Reaching, he scooped his hand through the solid materia as if it were liquid like the rest of the well. Turning, he extended his hand to her and opened his fist, presenting her with a broken ring. The band had been wrenched apart in the middle, but setting was undamaged. Thick and primitive, it was made of heavy gold and enclosed a deep blue stone; quite possibly a Command materia.

“Now it belongs to you.”

Max blinked. Nero had passed his hand right through the stone. Traveling via shadows was amazing, yes, but this was nothing short of miraculous. Veld had been right, Nero was way more powerful than he appeared at first glance.

It wasn’t scary, though. It was fascinating.

“How…” she began, still awe-struck. “How did you do that?”

“Like this,” Nero said, swiping his hand through the solid materia again. This time he held out a pair of earrings- green stones set in gold. Max took the jewelry from him, speechless, turning the ring to examine the rough carving along the band. Light glowed deep inside the stone, a blue flame against a midnight sky. 

She turned back to Nero. “That’s really sweet of you.” Leaning forward, she kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Thanks!”

He started and shied back as if she’d struck him. For a moment he hung frozen in the liquid mako, shock etched clear on his bare face. When she made no move to touch him again, he seemed to come to himself and shook off his surprise.

“What the hell?” he asked, bewildered.

“Sorry,” said Max, a little uncertain. That was the first time a guy had ever reacted like _that_ to her kissing him. “Um, haven’t you ever been kissed before?”

“No,” he stammered. Without his mask, he had nothing to hide behind, so his fearful expression was all too evident. “Sorry. I just… I just wasn’t expecting it is, all.”

“Okay, well, I’ll warn you next time.” She smiled, hoping to put him more at ease.

Nero rubbed at his cheek with one hand. “Why’d you do that?” he asked. “What even was that?”

“Oh.” For a moment, words escaped her. He had to be her age, or close to it. How could he not know…?

“It’s a kiss,” she said. “A gesture of affection, or friendship, or even just to thank someone. It was an impulse, I just...did it. I hope I didn’t offend you or anything.”

“No!” Nero exclaimed. “No, I…” He floundered for a moment, lips moving but producing no sound. Max was again reminded rather forcibly of Vincent. “No I um... not a lot of that went on in Deepground. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that the Restrictors are gone.” He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. There was more there. Though his face was smiling, there were dark secrets hiding in his eyes.

She was almost afraid to ask--but only almost. “What’s a Restrictor? Something that controlled what you did?” Images of shock collars flitted through her mind, but surely they hadn’t done anything like that to people in Deepground, had they?

“Kind of,” Nero replied, turning to face the cavern wall. Raising one hand, a sharp-edged silhouette detached itself from the shadows: a tall figure- as tall as Nero- draped in a long robe and crested with a broken helmet. “The microchips kept us in line, but the Restrictors ran the place. There were four of them: Doc, Professor, Warden, and Sarge. We never called them that to their faces, of course.”

Three other shadows had joined the original, each subtly different in shape, stance, and dress.

“We dealt with Sarge the most,” Nero explained, the figure with the damaged helm looming larger than the others. “He was in charge of troops and drill. Doc oversaw the medical staff, so I saw him here and there. I didn’t have as many chances to piss him off as I did with Sarge. Professor and Warden I never saw much of, since they dealt with the mongrels and fresh meat respectively. Can’t say I’m too broken up about it.

“None of them had any patience for anyone who couldn’t meet standard or follow regulations. If you didn’t obey, they’d come after you. I saw two recruits touching faces- kissing- only they held it longer. Maybe they thought the Restrictors wouldn’t see them, maybe they were too raw to realize they couldn’t do that. Sarge just walked up to them, and…” he raised one arm, two fingers extended and thumb in the air. He touched his fingers to Max’s forehead and then lightly jerked his arm up.

“ _Bang._ Both of them, right through. One bullet.”

Max shivered. “That’s horrible. Just for kissing? Why? Were they unequal in rank or something?”

“No,” Nero said, confusion tinting his expression. “They were _kissing._ That’s against the rules.”

Max almost asked ‘why’ again, like a child questioning a parent over and over, but the honest bewilderment in Nero’s face stopped her. Nero was telling his truth, his reality. It was unfair to push and pry, to insinuate that everything he knew was wrong. She’d promised Veld she wouldn’t judge Nero’s past, and she meant to keep that promise.

“Okay,” she said. “We just do things differently. No one’s going to kill you just for kissing. It might be against the rules sometimes, but it’s not a capital crime.”

“You could get punished for stuff like that,” Nero insisted. “You saw it pretty often with the new recruits who either didn’t know any better, or who forgot. If they were _lucky_ they’d get shot. Otherwise, they’d be punished.” His hands had crept up to clutch his shoulders, attention drawn inward. Max drifted silently, waiting for him to return to the present.

“Everyone saw,” he went on, toneless. “The Restrictors would make an example of them, so no one else would do that. I saw. Everyone saw, but no one helped them. They were all too scared.”

“What happened?” Max asked, her voice hushed. “Did they kill them?”

Nero shook his head. “No. They got punished. They put the JANE in the stocks, and strung the JOE up opposite her. Anybody in the stocks is fair game. He had to watch while other JOEs took a turn with her. He screamed a lot at first, but after a while he went quiet. The JANE cried the first hour or so, but then she went quiet too. By light’s out, she couldn’t stand up anymore.”

Max had gone cold from the inside out. She wanted to back away, wanted to double over and vomit, but fouling the mako would only make things worse. She swallowed hard, and made herself breathe slowly, until her voice came out calm and quiet.

“But you didn’t...take part in that. Right?”

He shook his head again, not looking at her or anything else. “No. They wouldn’t have let me even if I’d wanted to- and I didn’t want to. I watched them do the same thing to Rosso a couple of years earlier. They caught Azul doing what you did. Kissing her cheek.”

Nero shifted, glanced up at her briefly. “Azul’s from the surface, and he forgets sometimes that you can’t do things like that. Next thing I know they’re dragging me and Weiss to the punishment pole. Sarge held her down himself ‘cause they hadn’t built the stocks yet.”

Perversely, he smiled. “Rosso screamed and cussed through the whole thing.” He turned, finally meeting Max’s eyes. “She can’t feel pain, so I don’t think it bothered her all that much. Mostly she was just angry that she couldn’t fight back. The microchips keep you from attacking the Restrictors. You get a shock if you get too close to them, so it’s hard to act on whatever you might be thinking. Azul...he didn’t take it so well. He got hurt way more than she did.”

“Rosso must be a hell of a badass, then,” said Max. “And those creeps...Restrictors, whatever they were...I hope they died in pieces and in as much pain as they caused everyone else!”

The same shadow that she’d seen pass over Vincent’s face so many times flickered across Nero’s. She knew Vincent had been young when he’d suffered whatever trauma had made him the way he was, but it struck her in a sensitive place to see it on Nero. Unexpectedly, Nero shuddered, and swiped his arm through the mako, the shadows vanishing into tattered wisps of darkness.

“Anyway, they were the only thing scarier down there than us.”

Max usually had an answer for everything. This time, she kept her mouth shut and thought about what she’d just seen and heard. This sweet, shy, hesitant young man was so much more than he seemed. Shadows weren’t just his mode of travel; he shaped them, calling them into being and dismissing them, controlling them as he saw fit. In his hands, they had substance, energy … power.

He’d grown up with that power, learned to use it in what she now realized had been a brutal environment. No wonder Veld had warned her that Nero was something new and different. Vincent often said that Veld knew everything, that Veld was always right. She usually laughed, but not this time. Maybe she ought to be at least a little afraid--but Nero hadn’t harmed her, hadn’t even threatened her, despite all the horror he’d seen in Deepground. She knew he could fight like a demon, but with her, he’d been nothing but gentle.

“I’m glad the Restrictors are gone,” she said. “I’m glad you’re up top with us now...at least when you’re not down here in the cave.”

The smile he gave her was brittle and a little forced. “Thanks. If it hadn’t been for the Restrictors, it would have been pretty awesome. Most of the time it wasn’t so bad. It only sucked if you got caught doing something they didn’t like, and I’m not sure they liked anything.”

He shook himself, visibly returning to the present. “Anyway, you don’t want to hear any more about that.”

“Not if you don’t want to talk about it,” she said, still a little shaky inside. “Can we look around a little more? I don’t have anywhere I have to be today, and this is really cool.”

“Sure!” Nero agreed. “There’s some other stuff down here that’s kind of neat.”

He did an elegant sort of backflip and dove deeper. Max blinked, tucked the jewelry into her bra, and did a less dignified nosedive of her own, following him down. Stalagmites loomed in the distance, sticking up like enormous, skinny, skyscrapers. Upon closer examination, the spires were lumpy and oddly-shaped. One vaguely reminded her of a snowman. Squinting, she thought she could see stone beneath the thick layer of crystallized materia. Were there statues under there? Nero drifted a few yards away, waiting for her, and paddled over.

The stalagmites rose up from the center of the pool. Nero had gone over to one side of the well. There were odd, ridge-like projections sticking out of the wall. It took her a moment to realize the outcroppings were a broken set of stairs. There were a few other architectural elements as well. The wall was riddled with holes; some natural, some man-made. Several had what appeared to be carvings around them, though the heavy materia deposits made it hard to tell. Most gaped emptily, their narrow tunnels leading down and into a more profound darkness. Quite a few, however, remained covered with what reminded Max of ceremonial shields. Were these graves?

Nero was waiting near one of the larger, uncovered tunnels. This one was elegantly carved around its mouth, and elliptical in shape, and more than tall enough for Nero to stand up inside it comfortably. A shallow channel ran through the middle of the floor leading back into the blackness. The passage twisted and turned until at last it widened into a large, circular room. It would have been dark as the reverse side of Max’s eyelids, except for the massive pile of crystal that sat in the center of the room, emitting a soft indigo light. Beneath the obligatory layer of materia, Max could just make out what looked like primitive carvings, or paintings on the walls. The figures looked human, but between the low light and the materia shell, she could distinguish few details.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Nero asked. The crystal formation was bigger than he was, and that was saying something.

“It’s beautiful!” Max circled the crystal formation, enchanted by the soft play of light in its heart.   
She ran tentative fingers over one facet, the glassy surface smooth and warm to the touch.

“It must have been down here for ages to get this big,” Nero commented, absently resting one hand on a spear of crystal. The materia blinked, indigo fire briefly sparkling to life and then dying just as quickly. Nero started back and then drifted forward to poke it lightly with one finger. Again, light flickered somewhere deep within the many facets, but only for the space of a heartbeat.

“Maybe we better not touch it,” he said, eyeing it warily.

“It didn’t do anything when I touched it,” said Max. “Maybe it’s reacting to your shadows?”

“I have no idea. It’s never done that before.” A pause. “Are you getting a mako headache yet? It can get shouty if you stay under too long.”

Max shook her head. “Nope.” She tilted her head, as if listening to something in the distance. “There’s a sort of whispery hum, but it comes and goes. Should I be hearing actual voices?”

“You will if you stay down too long. I don’t mind it. Some of them tell cool stories, but it’s supposed to be dangerous for non-SOLDIERs,” Nero explained.

“I’m fine, but I guess for once I should take the expert’s advice. If you think we should head back, I’m ready.”

“Okay.”

He didn’t swim as quickly this time, checking himself so that she could easily keep up. The return to the surface seemed to take longer. It was hard to tell exactly how far down they were, but it was apparently much deeper than Max had originally thought. In the distance, the shelf of votive offerings glimmered in the half-light.

Breaking the surface felt strange, the air hot and too-sharp in her lungs for the first few breaths. Nero climbed out first, shadows wrapping him in his mako suit again, before he turned and offered a hand to help her out. She really needed to remember to pack a swimsuit next time. And a towel.

She used her sweatshirt to wipe down a bit before putting it on, remembering to pull out the ring Nero had given her and slip it into her skirt pocket. She hesitated over the emerald earrings.

“These would look great on you,” she said. “I’ll hang onto ‘em, and when we get a chance, if you want, I can pierce your ears for you.”

“Oh, um, okay,” Nero replied.

The two buckets full of mako sat waiting where’d she’d left them. “Guess we’d better get these back to the lab.”

“I’ll take you back,” Nero offered, picking up the other bucket with one hand, and holding out the other to her. Max took the second bucket and his hand, and let him pull her through the darkness back into the soft fluorescence of the lab. Maybe her eyes had gotten to used to the dim, violet light of the mako cavern. Everything seemed too bright, too clean, and Nero looked painfully out of place.

Nero set the bucket on the floor and released her hand. She would have liked to stay with him, to apologize, although she wasn’t sure what she would apologize for. However, Nero seemed to have exceeded his social limit for the day.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Max told him, giving him a smile. “This’ll be a big help.”

“See you later?”

Her smile broadened at the hopefulness in his voice. “Yeah.”

She couldn’t see his smile, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. Max stooped to lift the second bucket of mako with her free hand. When she straightened, Nero had gone.


	21. Shadowing Vincent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nero gives a lesson on shadows, instead of receiving one regarding the surface.

Vincent poked through his crowded bookshelves, more out of desperation than because anything useful might be there. He had Gaian life sciences, history, anthropology, folklore, books on magic and materia, numerous volumes on guns and ammo. Nothing on parenting.

“Why don’t I have ‘The Idiot’s Guide to Being a Dad’?” he muttered. He knew the answer. There had never been a need for it.

Intellectually, he knew there was no proof that Nero was his son. The Jenova in his cells was almost a blood type in and of itself; he might never have proof. Veld had warned Vincent more than once to keep his emotional distance.He’d tried, but now he knew that he wanted it to be true. 

Most rookie Turks were assigned a partner, an older agent who acted as advisor and mentor. Vincent hadn’t been active long enough to take on that duty in the past. In a way, Nero showing up in his life was a second chance. Even if they didn’t share DNA, maybe he could be that mentor.

Someone knocked at the door. Vincent grinned, assuming Veld had forgotten his keys again. Instead, he found Nero on the doorstep.

“Oh, it’s you.”

“Yes, sir. Reporting in, sir.”

Vincent sighed. “Nero, please stop calling me ‘sir’. Just call me ‘Vincent’. Come on in.”

“Um, yes, si- Vincent.” He stepped inside, glancing around. 

“Veld’s out getting groceries,” Vincent said. “You can wait if you want, unless there’s somewhere else you’d rather be? With friends?”

Nero shook his head. “I don’t have any friends. Just Max, and she’s busy right now.”

That didn’t make much sense. “What about all the other survivors from Deepground?”

“They’re mostly mothers and kids,” said Nero with a shrug. “They’re afraid of me. And the troops that lived either don’t like me, or they have their own friends.”

“But...that’s...not fair,” said Vincent. Damn, that sounded lame. “Well, I’ll be your friend, okay? I can’t….I don’t know if I’m really your dad, but I can do this much. I’d like to do something for you.”

“Sure,” said Nero, with a hint of shy grin behind his mask. 

An awkward silence fell. Casting about for something to talk about, Vincent’s eyes fell on Nero’s most defining characteristic. “Could you...show me how you do the thing with the shadows? I think I may be able to work with them.” 

“I can try…” Nero took a step backward, his back to the light, shadow stretching out before him. “It’s just something I could always do, because of the dark mako they gave me when I was little.”

“But how does it work?”

“It’s like...being able to reach your arm longer. The Dark is its own thing. I can’t really explain it.” He pointed at the dark shape on the carpet. “See if you can drop into my shadow. That way, if you get stuck, I can pull you out.”

“Um.” Vincent stepped forward, not quite stumbling, as though he’d felt for a stair-step that wasn’t there. 

“Just treat it like stairs, or empty space,” said Nero. “As though the floor’s not there.”

What would Chaos do? Vincent stepped sideways, sliding into shadow. 

Darkness welled up around him, cutting off the light. 

“Um. Hey. It’s dark in here.”

“You did it!” Nero’s voice came to him. “Now see if you can step back out. Let it boost you up.”

Vincent did so, stepping backward into the living room. “It worked!”

“You learn quick,” said Nero, beaming at him over the top of his mask. “Now try a wall. Those are harder. See if you can open a hole.”

“You do realize we don’t own this house, right?” Vincent said.

“Not like that. See your own shadow?” said Nero. “I can’t make shadows from nothing, but I can pull them together to do things. So you can either use a pre-existing shadow by itself, or you can pull small shadows together to make a bigger one. You can make a hole or a doorway.”

“What’s on the other side?”

“Whatever you want. Wherever you want to go. It’s easier to go someplace you’ve been before.”

That meant almost infinite possibilities. Thinking hard, Vincent chose a particularly dark corner of the room, reasoning that as a new practitioner of the art of shadowing, it might prove easier to work with. Holding the image of a familiar place in mind, he walked into the shadows, at the last second calling out, “Are you coming with me in case I get lost?”

“Right behind you.”

Darkness closed around him again, and Vincent kept walking, expecting to bump into the wall. He didn’t; the dark opened out before him like a tunnel, black as the midnight sky. He walked forward, Nero at his back, and moments later stepped out onto a stone balcony high above the city.

Wind hit them hard, tossing his and Nero’s hair. “This is Reeve’s private balcony,” Vincent said. “He doesn’t use it much. I come up here sometimes to think.”

Standing at the rail, looking out over Edge, Nero nodded. “I used to go to the mako caves when I needed to think.”

It gave them something in common, although Vincent was drawn to heights, while the depths were Nero’s home. “Did you do that a lot?”

“Yeah, there’s a lot of caves. I explored so many tunnels. Do you want to see?”

Encouraged by his success thus far, Vincent nodded. “Sure.”

“Okay!” Nero led him into darkness. Shadows swirled around them, thick as stormclouds, and in a few minutes opened out into a deep grotto.

“Gods.” Vincent spun on his heel, taking in the surrounding space. The cave glowed with the blue-purple light of numerous mako pools, some small, some large. Stalagmites rose from the floor, their creamy-gold surfaces oddly marked with scribbles and scratches. A few random objects lay scattered about: A rough blanket, a threadbare pillow, a couple of books and other odds and ends.

Vincent looked it over, coming to the inevitable conclusion. It didn’t even take Turk skills.

“Nero. You’ve been sleeping here, haven’t you?”

“It’s safe here,” said Nero in a small voice. 

“It’s a cave,” Vincent snapped. “You could have a real bed and a roof over your...I mean…” He looked up. There was a roof over Nero’s head, as well as a few million tons of solid rock.

Solid rock, silence, and acres and acres of darkness broken only by the wan glow of dark mako. Vincent shivered. “Okay, never mind. I get it. It’s okay, but we’ll...talk about it?”

Damn, the walls were closing in, oh gods…Seeking a distraction, Vincent focused on the drawings that covered the rock walls from the ground on up to about shoulder-height. “D’you mind if I look at these?”

“If you want.”

Vincent examined the drawings, noting the crude marks obviously done by a child’s clumsy hand, the pictographs showing increasing skill as they went up the wall. The kid had talent, even Vincent could tell. He found a man’s figure, pale hair sticking up every which-way, wide-shouldered, his torso bare. And near him, a woman, curves delicately rendered, with long curling hair. 

Somewhere Nero had found things to color with: The man’s eyes were blue, the woman’s golden, and her hair a bright blood-red. 

Between them, Nero had drawn a tall, thin male figure, black-haired, golden-eyed, his lower face covered by a mask, shadows swirling about his feet. The shoulders of the trio touched, Weiss’s meeting Nero’s right, Rosso’s his left.

“These are really good,” he said. “Now I’ve got a much better idea of what they look like.”

“D’you think it will help?” Though he tried to keep his tone casual, Nero’s worry for his siblings came through clearly. 

“I think so,” Vincent said, with more confidence than he felt. Weeks had passed; Weiss and Rosso hadn’t turned up yet. They could still be among the dead, but he hadn’t the heart to dash Nero’s hopes by reminding him of that.

He touched another drawing gingerly; a thin layer of mako had crystallized over it. Words had been scratched into the surface, over a drawing of a dark-haired face.

“This looks like you,” Vincent said. “What does ‘tried to help’ mean?”

“Oh. That.” Nero rubbed the back of his neck, looking down. “It...the mission failed. I had to be punished.”

“What? Why?”

“Well, Rosso can't feel pain. You can only hurt her feelings. And you can't hurt Weiss because he's too strong, you can only make him sad.”

His voice flat and totally matter-of-fact, he went on, “If Weiss messed up, they would punish Rosso. If she messed up, they'd punish me. I wasn't half as good a Tsviet as they were. The Restrictors didn't usually let me out to do anything.” 

With every word he said, Vincent’s temper rose, burning through his self-control. He sputtered, and finally spat a string of curses that could have raised a demon.

“Fucking Restrictors--gods, what I’d give to be able to rip them apart again.”

Nero just shrugged. “It was my fault.”

Vincent rounded on him. “It was not! You can’t help being what you are!”

Nero backed up a step, his eyes huge and dark. Vincent grabbed his shoulders, too angry to think. People had deliberately hurt this boy, blamed him for things beyond his control.

“Nero, they were wrong to do those things to you! You’re a person, you’re human! And they were evil!”

Nero vanished, collapsing into shadow.

Silence fell. 

“Oh, great.” 

Millions of tons of solid rock, acres and acres of darkness, and not a living soul to be seen.

_Okay, Valentine, stay calm._

“Nero?”

 _It’s just a cave, I can get out again._

“Nero, I’m sorry. I’m not angry at you.”

_I am not claustrophobic, this is just...a little creepy…_

“I know it wasn’t my fault!” Nero’s voice echoed from somewhere in the vast space. “It was Rosso’s fault, so they took it out of me. That’s how it works!”

“No. It doesn’t. Or it shouldn’t.” Vincent turned slowly, searching the shadows, the mako glow, the stalagmites standing like sentinels all around him. “It’s wrong!”

“Right or wrong, that was my life.” Nero appeared in front him. Vincent only just managed not to jump. 

“You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong with me,” said Nero. “I already know.”

“I didn’t mean wrong with _you_.” Vincent reached for him; Nero flinched, and Vincent dropped his arms. “I’m sorry. I shot my mouth off without thinking. Could we...could we get out of here now, please?”

“Sure.” Nero opened a tunnel and stepped into it, leading the way back to Reeve’s balcony.

Wide open sky, fresh air, and blessed daylight. Vincent took in a deep breath, and turned back to Nero, who stood in a patch of shadow in the lee of the wall. 

“Nero, listen. I’m not angry at you, I’m...I’m angry that I wasn’t there when you were growing up, to keep you from being hurt. Even if you’re not my son, someone should have stopped this.”

“They didn’t know,” Nero said, as if that made it all right.

“But I do, now. And I want you to be safe. You don’t have to sleep in a cave. Veld and I have a spare bedroom. You’re welcome to stay with us.”

“The cave is fine. I don’t mind.”

“The cave is NOT fine. Seriously, Nero, go back and get your stuff--” Not that there’d been many personal possessions there. “Bring whatever you want. Tonight. No more living in a cave.”

“Is that an order?” said Nero, a little stiffly.

Vincent ran with it. “Yes, it is.”

Nero looked unconvinced. Vincent thought he knew why. “Veld will be fine with it. Don’t worry.”

“If you say so.”

Shadows flickered over Nero’s body, fluttering in the wind, giving him an insubstantial appearance, as though he was a hologram about to vanish. Vincent kept his distance, even while a part of him ached to reach out and pull Nero into a hug.

“You’ll be safe there,” he said gently. “And look at it this way: You’ll eat a hell of a lot better at our house than you do at the WRO cafeteria.”

That got him a hint of a smile behind the respirator. “Oh. I guess so.”

With that settled, Vincent focused on getting both of them home via the shadows. It only took him two tries, the first one landing them in an alley behind a bar across town from their house.

On his second attempt, he brought them back into the living room, just as Veld came in through the door, his arms full of grocery bags.

“Hey, Veld,” Vincent said. “We’ve got a new roommate.”


	22. Roommate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which another person is added to the lease.

Veld looked at Vincent, then at Nero, and back again. Rejecting the first comment that came to mind - and the second, and the third - he took a slow breath and said, “Nero, would you mind helping me put these groceries away?”

“Um, no. I mean, sure. I mean, I wouldn’t mind.” Nero took the bags from him. “But I don’t know exactly where everything goes.”

“Anything cold goes in the refrigerator,” said Veld, “and the boxes and cans go in the cupboards next to the stove. Fresh produce goes in the vegetable bin.”

“Yessir.” Nero disappeared into the kitchen, with one apprehensive glance back at Veld. He wasn’t stupid; there would be Words, and he was the topic. 

Veld turned back to Vincent. “You told him he could stay here.” 

“He’s been sleeping in a _cave_ , Veld.”

“Vincent,” said Veld, holding onto his patience, “this is the guy that killed two patrolmen.”

“They attacked him first.”

“Nearly wiped out an entire infantry unit.”

“He explained that,” Vincent said. “He was trained to kill, not to play.”

“Yes. He was. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

“He’s never touched either of us! He won’t hurt us.”

“He showed up in our bedroom,” said Veld. “In the middle of the night, through the ceiling, Vincent. Do you really think he understands boundaries?”

Vincent crossed his arms. “I get it. You’re still mad that your shot missed.”

“It didn’t miss,” said Veld. “It grazed him. And that’s not the point.”

“No, the point is that you don’t trust him! And yet you just sent him to put stuff away in our kitchen.”

“Groceries,” said Veld, “are replaceable.”

“Oh, for---a _cave_ , Veld! Sleeping in a godsdamned _cave_.”

“Well, it apparently hasn’t done him any harm.”

“How can you say that!” Vincent shoved his hair back with both hands. “He’s a kid!”

“No, he’s not,” said Veld, trying to be reasonable and rational, and all the things Vincent didn’t seem to want to be when it came to Nero. “He’s an adult. He commanded a unit in Deepground. He’s not a child. Did you even ask him if he wants to stay here?”

That caught Vincent off guard. His eyes flicked toward the kitchen. “He’s okay with it.”

“Vincent. Did you ask him?”

“I...sort of told him.”

“Right.” The quiet sounds of cupboard doors opening and closing had stopped a couple of minutes ago. Wondering if Nero had simply left via shadows rather than become a point of contention, Veld called out, “Nero?”

“Yes, Sir?” Nero poked his head out of the kitchen, giving Vincent a wary glance. 

“How do you feel about staying with us?”

“Um. I’m okay with the cave, sir. Really, it’s not a problem.”

Vincent rolled his eyes. “Nero, we talked about this. It’s damp and cold and dirty, it can’t possibly be comfortable. Why on earth would you want to stay there?”

“It’s safe there,” said Nero very quietly. “The only way in or out is by shadow. We used to hide from the Restrictors there. We could keep stuff in there that we weren’t supposed to have. It was always a safe place for us.”

“But it’s safe here!” Vincent looked at Veld. “Tell him!”

“And the mako pool is there,” said Nero. “I need that.”

Veld smirked. “You planning to fill the bathtub with dark mako, Vince?”

“The cave is fine,” said Nero, eyes darting back and forth between Veld and Vincent. 

“The cave is _not_ fine.” The words were directed more at Veld, who also got the benefit of a full-on, patented Valentine glare. “Why did you agree to sponsor him if you don’t trust him? If he wanted to kill us he’d have had tried to already!”

“I don’t want to kill you!” Nero’s voice buzzed through the respirator, as though he’d gotten short of breath. “I...I should go.”

“Please don’t,” Vincent said, reaching for his arm. Nero flinched, just barely, and Vincent stopped short of touching him. “Don’t go. I can’t stand the thought of you sleeping in a cave.”

Ah, there it was. “Vincent,” said Veld gently, “this is more about you than about Nero, isn’t it?”

Vincent’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. They’d never discussed the paternity issue with Nero, and even Vincent could tell this wasn’t the time or place. He scowled, but it lacked heat. “I just...he...Well, what kind of sponsor would let him sleep in a freaking cave?” 

“But I don’t mind,” said Nero. He glanced down, clearly uncomfortable. “I’m not really used to sleeping in a bed. We all...Rosso and Weiss and I... slept together on the floor. Never used our beds. I haven’t slept alone in a bed since I was very little.”

“But, you’re alone in the cave,” said Vincent, thoroughly confused. “How is that better?”

“I didn’t say it was better.” Nero’s eyes remained firmly fixed on the carpet. “I said I was used to it.”

Veld winced. Maybe Vincent did have a point, even if it was based more on his own hopes than on any possible harm to Nero. Vincent’s heart, such as it was, was in the right place. The pleading look he turned on Veld sealed the deal.

“Nero, we’d like you to have a safe place on the surface, too,” said Veld. “You can always stop at the cave for a mako bath. And, you know, eventually, you’ll be spending nights at the Turk barracks. Might as well get used to sleeping up top, if you can.”

Nero said nothing, evidently thinking it through. At a sign from Veld, Vincent kept silent, and Veld knew how difficult it was for him. 

At last Nero looked up, with a slight, hesitant smile at the edges of his respirator. “Okay. I’ll give it a try. And...thank you. It’s very kind of you.”

“All right, then. I guess you’re our new roommate after all.”


	23. Baby Makes Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veld did not sign up for this. Vincent somehow thought this would be easier.  
> Nero feels like a prisoner in someone else's home.

Unless one counted his mako suit, Nero had never worn clothes before. By his logic, he was covered, and that should be good enough to get on with. Although the suit might cover all but his head and hands, it didn’t actually hide very much. Skin tight, and made from something that resembled a heavier version of spandex, it didn’t leave much to the imagination.

It was just him, Vincent and Veld in the house. Veld, however, had standards that had to be met. He called Nero into the living room one morning before leaving for the office.

“Son,” he said, trying his best to be grandfatherly rather than judgmental, “we need to get you some clothes. You can’t go around in just that suit. I know Vincent gave you some of his things, but I noticed you don’t wear them most of the time. Is there a reason for that?”

Nero shifted uneasily, still nervous in the face of authority. Too used to having to provide the “right” answer, he did not reply immediately.

“I...didn’t think I had to?” he stammered. “I never had to before. I always wore just this in Deepground. It’s not like I can take it off. I wear stuff overtop to class and to training ‘cause…’cause I don’t look as weird, sort of like wearing a uniform.” It was a long speech for Nero. The boy tended to talk in short, clipped, almost fragmented sentences that were brief and to the point. Almost everything he said sounded like a status report.

“No excuse, Sir,” Nero said, clutching at his own shoulders. “It won’t happen again.”

“I understand that you need to wear the mako suit,” said Veld. “You’ll have to get into the habit of wearing something over it. Especially pants.” That much ought to be obvious, in his opinion, but then again, it was evidently another one of the numerous things that made surface life so different from life in Deepground. 

“Being properly dressed shows respect and professionalism. We’re not overly formal at home, but you’ll notice that Vincent and I don’t go around unclothed.” Most of the time, anyway; he couldn’t always swear to what Vincent might decide to do.

“We’ll take you shopping soon,” he finished. “Oh, and by the way--you’re not in trouble. Consider this a briefing, all right?”

Nero nodded slowly, hesitantly lowering his arms to his sides. “This is like doors,” he said after a moment. “Knocking. Privacy.”

“Yes,” Veld confirmed, wondering not for the first time if Nero truly didn’t understand, or if he was just playing dumb to avoid punishment?

“It’s weird for you and Vincent and other people, even if it isn’t weird for me.”

“Yes.”

“Understood, Sir,” Nero saluted. “Pants are a priority.”

Veld coughed to cover the laughter he was struggling to choke back. “Yes, pants are important.”

\--

The overall concept of privacy continued to be a work in progress for Nero. He usually remembered to use the door when coming and going. If a door was closed, he would knock first. However, Veld had yet to see the door to the back bedroom close, and Nero frequently forgot to shut the bathroom door behind him.

“Shut the door, son,” Veld told him, averting his eyes even as he pulled the door closed the last few inches. “Ain’t nobody want to see that.”

“Sorry, Sir,” Nero told him, the apology almost unintelligible due to the wood further muffling the already staticky speech of his respirator. Vincent snickered, and Veld shot him a look.

“He’s _your_ potential kid, not mine,” Veld half-grumbled, wishing it were possible to wash one’s eyeballs. Vincent just grinned.

“I still say he’s your stepson.”

Veld sighed heavily and wondered what he’d done to deserve two teenagers in the house?

\--

Vincent didn’t need to sleep much. Often it was enough just to lie quietly and watch Veld as he dreamed. Knowing there was a third person in the house made it a bit harder, and Vincent usually checked on Nero before retiring for the night.

Nero never closed his bedroom door; behaved as if it wasn’t there. Also, he rarely slept in the spare bed. Vincent had caught him once or twice curled up on the bedspread, wrapped in shadows rather than blankets. More often, however, there would be an exceptionally large and deep shadow on the floor near the bed with Nero huddled at the center.

Reaching, Vincent leaned and pulled the door to close it at least part way. However, the hinge creaked and Nero jerked awake, starting upright.

“It’s okay,” Vincent assured him, voice soft. “It’s just me.”

Golden eyes blinked at him in the darkness, then bounded toward him. Vincent started, barely biting back a shout as a creature that was _not_ Nero scurried across the carpet.

“Ned, _sit!_ ”

Obediently the thing stopped short and dropped onto its behind. Nero- and it was Nero this time- had climbed out of the shadows. Scooping the thing up in both arms, he held it as if it were a stuffed toy.

“Sorry about that,” he apologized.

“What the hell is that?” Vincent stepped closer, eyeing the black whatever-it-was in Nero’s arms. Two bright yellow eyes blinked up at him. “That’s….not an animal. Or a person. Is it?”

“No, he’s a shadow,” Nero explained. “I call ‘em squeakies.”

The squeaky squeaked, the noise like a rusty bicycle tire. About the size of a small dog, it vaguely reminded Vincent of an ant- its body a uniform black with a pair of antennae waving above yellow button eyes. Instead of six legs, it had only two arms and two legs, lending it a more humanoid stance and gait.

“They don’t bite, and they don’t poop,” Nero went on. “You said I could bring whatever I wanted from the cave.” He hugged the creature close, as if afraid it might be taken by force.

“Um. I guess I did.” Vincent reached a cautious hand, not sure if he wanted to pet the thing or let it sniff his hand as a dog might. “...Hello?”

The creature- Ned- sniffed at Vincent’s hand and then edged its head under Vincent’s fingers to be petted. It gave a happy chirrup as he stroked its perfectly round cranium. The solid darkness felt soft and fuzzy as velvet.

“Do they shed?”

“No, Sir.”

Well, a sentient shadow probably wasn’t the strangest thing he’d ever seen. If it wasn’t dangerous or messy, there was no reason Nero couldn’t have one around. At least, that was the argument he planned to use with Veld.

“Just keep him off the furniture,” Vincent said by way of a concession.

Nero visibly relaxed, cuddling the thing a bit before setting it down. “I promise.”

About then a flicker of light behind Nero caught Vincent’s attention. A shiver ran through him as he noticed easily a dozen pairs of bright yellow eyes staring back at him.

“Nero,” he said, deliberately calm, “how many squeakies do you have?”

“I’m not sure,” Nero shrugged. “I’ve named some of them.”

“One I could understand, but why do you have a whole pile of them in your room?”

Nero shuffled awkwardly, stroked Ned’s velvety hide, and generally avoided eye-contact.

“You can tell me,” Vincent prompted, and then hastily amended, “but you don’t have to. It’s up to you.”

“I miss Weiss and Rosso,” Nero said quietly. “I’m not allowed to look for them at night, and I’m not allowed in your room. So. Squeakies.”

On one hand, Nero was a grown man. He should be perfectly capable of sleeping alone, or of seeking out a companion if he wasn’t. Then again, he was used to his siblings- Vincent forcibly kept his thoughts from veering off into less savory territory- all Nero really wanted at present was warmth and comfort. Despite Ned’s velvety texture, Vincent doubted a pile of shadow creatures would be that cuddly. However, there was no way Veld would allow Nero to camp out in their room, even if Nero preferred to sleep on the floor.

“I want you be happy here,” said Vincent, aware of how inadequate the word seemed at the moment. “Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

Nero shifted, pulled his arms close to his body, looked at Vincent, looked at the floor. At length he simply shook his head.

“No, Sir.”

“Never mind, kid. It was a dumb question.” 

Vincent had been so focused on proving a blood relationship between himself and Nero that he’d forgotten to keep the boy updated on his progress - or lack thereof.

Now didn’t seem the time to admit that he was batting zero on locating Nero’s family. Instead, he stepped closer and tentatively leaned his shoulder against Nero’s, unsure if he was doing it right, or even if he should, but Nero needed reassurance, and it was all he had to offer.

“You can sleep on the floor if you want to,” he said. “It’s not against the rules. You can keep a few squeakies around, too. I don’t mind.”

Nero leaned back, nodded, his voice dry and scratchy through the respirator when he spoke: “Thank you, Sir.”

\--

Veld and Vincent had given him the spare bedroom to sleep in. The bed was soft and comfortable when Nero sat down on it, the mattress more than wide enough for two people, yet there was only himself. The first night, he had opened every drawer in the bureau, paged through the shirts and trousers hanging in the closet, read the title of every book on the shelf, and scrutinized the pictures hanging on the walls. The room was filled with _things_ and he’d wanted to memorize every detail. Eventually, however, he ran out of things to look at.

Every night with virtually no exception, he’d slept on the floor with his brother and sister curled up beside him. The spare room was thunderously quiet without their breathing, the soft shift of their bodies against his as they turned in their sleep. More than anything he wanted assurance that they were alright, and that they missed him as much as he missed them. He liked to think that they were looking for him too, and refused to believe the insidious little voice that said it wasn’t true.

Nero tried to sleep. He honestly did, but knowing Weiss and Rosso, Azul and Argento were out there and he was not with them ate at him from the inside. How was he supposed to sleep all by himself in this soft room without them? They should be enjoying these luxuries with him, or else he ought to be sleeping rough but comfortable, safe between them.

Nero couldn’t help thinking of Vincent and Veld in the next room, only a few inches of wall separating them. Admittedly, they didn’t know him very well, and Veld seemed exceptionally shy, but it felt cruel to him that they would shut him out. Maybe their bed was not big enough for three people?

They’d thrown him out the last time, Vincent citing an abundance of modesty on Veld’s part. Nero felt as if he _almost_ understood this. It probably fell into the same category as the reasons Azul had given as to why it was not appropriate for Weiss and himself to get friendly with each other. Family didn’t do that. Neither Vincent nor Veld were family, but the same rules might apply up here. All Nero really wanted at the moment was to not be alone. Surely that would be acceptable?

He lost his nerve halfway, and wound up warping to the dark mako cavern instead. He washed as best he could in the indigo liquid, and made such repairs to his suit as were possible. The fixes he made were becoming increasingly jerry-rigged, and the knot in his gut told him he could not keep this up forever. He could manage without the suit. It would not be pleasant, but it wouldn’t kill him. If his respirator broke, however… Nero snapped the thought like a thread, ruthlessly shoving down the panic rising in his chest.

Hundreds of feet above the cavern were two people who _said_ they would never intentionally hurt him. Why Veld had had to make a point of that, Nero wasn’t sure. Usually when someone said something like that, it was a hint to expect a literal knife in the back, or an intentionally stray shot in the training simulator. He didn’t have Weiss or Rosso to watch his back now. He wasn’t truly afraid of Vincent, though he could not understand his continued attempts to endear himself to Nero. Vincent out-ranked him. He shouldn’t need to do that, yet he did anyway, which made no sense. Veld...was trickier. Veld was a good cook, could be kind, but he was also obviously the one in charge. It wouldn’t be wise to get on Veld’s bad side. Even still…

Tilting his head, Nero looked up at the dark ceiling of the cavern. He knew in his head that Veld and Vincent were not directly above him. However, he could see the cluttered space under their bed perfectly clearly. There was no noise tonight, no shriek of bedsprings or thud of the headboard against the wall. Maybe as long as they weren’t doing anything, it might be alright? Maybe if they didn’t know he was there…

Before he had completed the thought, Nero had made the leap. There wasn’t much space between the rifle case and the plastic bins of papers and winter clothes, but it was all he needed. Stretching out in the darkness, among and amidst the objects and their shadows, Nero settled to try to sleep. Just having someone else in the room was calming. They’d never know it, but he’d sleep secure between them, several inches below.

\--

Deepground was hardly a forgotten issue, given that the smoking crater took up most of the old city center. However, since there were no rampaging hoards issuing from it, public concern regarding the underground testing facility had faded considerably. Only the WRO and Nero remained actively worried about it.

“It’s still unsafe,” Reeve insisted when Vincent brought it up. “There’s no good way to get a team down there.”

“Actually, there might be…” Vincent said slowly. “Remember the boxes in the foyer and the elevator to hell down in the lobby?”

Reeve blinked. “Wait, is that still there?”

“Yep.”

“So we have a stable access point into Deepground?”

“Kind of?” Vincent hedged. “I’d have to ask Nero. It connects to the Deepground storage vault and I don’t know if there’s a way out of that into the areas where the general population was housed. It’s possible Nero could move the location so that the elevator opened somewhere else.”

“And he can do all this with his shadows?” Reeve pressed. His expression possessed a wide-eyed intensity that generally meant you’d better either get on board, or get out of the way. Preferably both.

“Maybe? He doesn’t seem to have a good idea of what he can do himself. He just...does it. So can I to a limited degree.”

“Really?” Reeve sounded impressed.

Vincent shrugged modestly. “I’m nowhere near as good, but I haven’t had twenty years to practice.”

“I’ll schedule a meeting with him and Shelke. It would be worth it to have her opinion as well. If all three of you put your heads together, we should be able to establish a map of sorts.”

Vincent nodded, not about to confess that he didn’t actually remember all that much. Maybe discussing Deepground’s layout with Nero and Shelke would jog his memory a bit. It might not be pleasant, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was helping his son.

\--

Vincent did not mention his plan to Nero right away. His Turk training was going well for the most part, but no one was willing to take him on in combat practice. Nero seemed to take this more or less in stride, but there were other, smaller mistakes that he took personally. It was difficult to drive home to him that he would not be tortured for every little mistake. The Turks were a fairly relaxed and socially-maladjusted bunch, but even among them Nero was having a hard time fitting in. 

Although Veld did his best to be non-threatening, it was evident Nero wasn’t entirely at ease. He would never say anything, and his body language was minimal at best. However, Vincent could feel the underlying tension, the subtle current of fear that seemed to follow Nero wherever he went. It made Vincent unhappy as well. All he wanted to do was to help his son, but he had no idea how.

Veld was puttering in the kitchen putting things away by the time Vincent came home, held up by a late meeting. Purposely dragging a chair out on which to drape his jacket, Vincent made enough noise to let Veld know he was there. Coming up behind him, Vincent wound his arms around him and hugged him close. Setting down the sponge he’d been using to wipe the stove, Veld leaned back against him and patted his hand.

“Yeah,” Veld said softly. “Me too.”

“This is proof that I was not cut out to be a parent,” Vincent mumbled into Veld’s hair.

“I dunno,” Veld mused. “Nothing’s on fire yet.”

“ _Yet._ ”

That made them both chuckle.

“You hungry?” Veld asked. “The kid eats like a garbage disposal, but there’s a box or two left in the fridge.”

“I’d rather have a stiff drink.”

Obligingly, Veld fetched the whiskey and two tumblers from the shelf. He poured a small measure for himself and a larger one for Vincent.

“Everything under control?”

Vincent nodded and sipped his drink. “About as much as it ever is. Mask knows not to bother Nero. He doesn’t even seem interested, which is just as well. Don’t worry. He won’t go after the kid again.”

“Good to know,” Veld agreed, tasting his own drink.

“Did Nero come home with you?”

“No, he and Max went out, but he's back now. Apparently they got coffee and went swimming.”

Vincent raised an eyebrow, but Veld just shrugged. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to, Valentine.”

Vincent nodded and swallowed more whiskey. “Where is he now?”

“In your room looking at a book. Once the kitchen was clean I dismissed him, and he didn’t hang around.” Veld paused, frowned.

“Vince…” he began, reaching across the table and taking Vincent’s hand in his. “Have I been heavy-handed with the kid?”

Vincent blinked. “No. Not at all. I mean, you were Chief for twenty years, the air of authority doesn’t disappear quickly. Doesn’t bother me, though. Someone’s got to keep me in line.”

Veld mirrored Vincent’s crooked grin with a brief smile of his own. “As much as I usually prefer the kids to have a vague and abiding fear of me...I think in his heart Nero’s afraid I’ll skin him- or you- if he gets on my bad side. When he pulled me through the shadows, he begged me not to hurt you,” he began, voice grimly soft. “He thought I was going to come after you because of what he’d done.”

“He never even mentioned Mask attacking him,” Vincent added, equally quiet. “He thought you smacking some sense into me was the punishment.”

“Oh gods,” Veld groaned and reached for the bottle. He hadn’t planned on drinking more, but dammit he was too old for this.

“I think I’ve convinced him that we don’t do that sort of passive-aggressive bullshit,” Vincent continued. “He screws up, he takes the heat for his own mistakes, and any punishment he may receive isn’t going to draw blood. He seemed a little confused, but I _think_ he gets it now.”

Veld let out a sigh and nodded, finishing his drink. “Well, that’s one small step.” For a moment he toyed with Vincent’s long fingers, ran his thumb over the back of his hand.

“Vince...you think maybe we’re in over our heads? Nero’s a sweet kid, but he’s got more baggage than the commuter rail at rush hour. I’m a Turk and a profiler, but I’m not a gods damned shrink.”

“I know,” Vincent agreed, hanging his head. “He’s my responsibility. I should be helping him, but I have _no_ idea what to do. Every instinct I have is telling me to give him the biggest hug I can and to tell him it will be alright, except I know full well he wouldn’t understand that. It might even scare him.”

Giving a heavy sigh, Vincent downed the last of his drink. “You’re right. This is more than we can handle alone. I’ll talk to Cissnei tomorrow. She’s the resident shrink. She’ll have a better idea of what to do with him.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Leaving the bottle and glasses for the morning, both retreated down the hall. Vincent stopped and glanced through the open door of the back bedroom. Nero lay curled up on the still-made bed, wrapped in shadow as if in a blanket, his respirator rasping softly with every breath. Vincent would have liked to drape the afghan over Nero, or even pat his shoulder by way of a goodnight, but as it was best to let sleeping Turks and SOLDIERs lie, the same was probably true of Tsviets as well. For now, at least, Nero was safe and at peace. He also had a friend, and they’d talk to Cissnei in the morning. Despite himself, Vincent smiled. Maybe he wasn’t so bad at this after all.

Silently, Vincent slipped down the hall and into his and Veld’s room. He couldn’t hug Nero, so he hugged his partner instead, putting as much tenderness and affection into it as he knew how. Veld snuggled close, returning the gesture and stroking his hair.

“We’re gettin’ soft in our old age, Valentine,” he mumbled sleepily.

“That such a bad thing?” Vincent countered gently, resting his cheek on Veld’s hair. For the last few days he’d been heartsick over Nero and what had happened to him without his knowledge. Now, however, Vincent felt strangely at peace about the whole thing. Nero would be alright. They’d figure this out. It would be okay.

“Nah,” Veld yawned. “‘Night, Spook.”

“‘Night, Veld.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's curious, I shamelessly appropriated the [Nightstalkers](http://static.tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pub/images/kh_shadow.png) from "Kingdom Hearts" for Nero's Squeakies.


	24. Shrunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nero realizes an important truth.

The nice thing was that they wound up not having to supply an explanation to Nero. The boy tended to treat every remark as an order. When Vincent suggested he talk to Cissnei, Nero took it as law.

Cissnei was small and unassuming at first glance. It had served her well when she was active-duty, but not everyone was cut out to stay in the business for the long haul. She had gotten injured in the line of duty several years ago. Veld had been in hiding at the time, but that hadn’t stopped him from personally delivering flowers to her hospital room. She had transferred laterally not long after that. It took a Turk to diagnose a Turk, and so far she’d done a good job looking after the family.

Although Veld had never actually had the experience, he felt as if he were dropping off a small child for the first day of school. Nero seemed remarkably calm; perhaps didn’t understand what talking to Cissnei meant. If he had, perhaps he’d have been less amenable.

As it was, all three of them arrived at Cissnei’s office at the appointed time. The room was notably lacking in the stereotypical psychiatrist’s couch. Indeed, it looked more like someone had squeezed a small coffee shop into the space.

“Hi guys,” Cissnei greeted them pleasantly. “Chief, Valentine, good to see you. And you must be Nero.” She extended her hand to shake, but Nero had already grabbed his shoulders and shuffled a half-step back.

“I better not,” he mumbled, trying to be polite. “Nice to meet you.”

“Well, if you don’t need us…” Vincent began, edging toward the door. Although it had been suggested more than once that he see a counselor himself, Vincent had no desire to recite his sordid past to anyone, PhD or otherwise, particularly not to Cissnei. There were certain things a guy just couldn’t tell a woman, not to mention the fact that she was half his age. “Think you’ll be okay, Nero?”

The boy seemed confused, but nodded. “I’ll be fine, Sir.”

Cissnei waited until the older men had departed before gesturing for Nero to take a seat.

“Nero, I’m sorry about earlier. I wasn’t trying to invade your space,” Cissnei apologized.

Nero shrugged. “It’s okay.”

“Are you cold? I can adjust the thermostat.”

“No, I’m okay.”

“Is there a reason you’re keeping your arms crossed like that?” she inquired politely.

“Oh!” Nero put his arms down, hands tightly folded in his lap. “I just didn’t want to warp you somewhere weird.”

Cissnei cocked her head, confused. “Warp?”

“With my shadows.” Holding out one hand, a sphere of darkness appeared, swirling above his open palm. “I don’t have a lot of control over it.”

Cissnei blinked, but nodded, otherwise unfazed. “Do you warp things a lot?”

“Sometimes?” Nero shrugged. “It used to happen more often. I wore a straightjacket and a rig so I could still do stuff without disappearing anything. Guess I’m just used to assuming the position.”

“Do you still need the rig?”

Nero shook his head. “I lost it. I can manage, mostly. I just have to be careful.”

“Do you have a lot of trouble with your shadows?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“Not like I used to. I mean, it’s not great, but I can manage.”

It went on like that, Cissnei asking questions, leading him down various trails of logic. Nero did his best to answer, and before long she smiled and said they were done. They’d had him speak to someone like this the first time he’d been brought in. The doctor had been male that time, and wore a suit and tie just like Cissnei, instead of a white coat. Doctors always wanted the same thing: to see what was going on inside you. Except Cissnei and the other guy weren’t medical doctors, they were mind doctors. Psychologists. Nero wasn’t entirely sure what that was, but the leading questions made him suspicious. The very fact that he was here gave him all the answer he needed: they thought there was something wrong with him.

It wasn’t easy to guess at what she wanted to know, to tell her what she wanted to hear. He needed to convince her of something, but what? He wasn’t crazy like some of the poor sods down in Deepground. He’d had any number of mentally unstable people in his unit, but they’d fit in perfectly fine. Many of them had been among his best subordinates. Deepground, for the most part, had suited them. Nero wondered how they had fared up here on the Surface, before they’d been recruited.

Then it hit him. They hadn’t.

Maybe they’d been shoved in front of a psychologist too. Maybe people had thought there was something wrong with them as well. They were broken and needed to be fixed, or at the very least trained to act...to act… “Normal” was the only word he could come up with. To wear clothes and shut doors and let people hang all over them in public. Nero had never been a very good liar, but he was a decent actor. However, acting like this whole surface thing agreed with him was asking too much.

Smiling and nodding in front of Cissnei, giving her edited versions of Deepground life, of what was going through his head, the truth struck him like a fist to the gut.

He didn’t belong here. Didn’t _want_ to belong here.

If Weiss and Rosso, Azul and Argento had been up here with him, it would be a completely different story. Azul and Argento had lived on the surface for half their lives. They knew the rules, all the strange subtleties, what to do and what not to do. They could have been their mentors and teachers, as they had always been. Weiss and Rosso would have been just as lost, just as confused as he was, and at the end of the day, when he couldn’t stand it any more, he could go home to them and be himself and not be scolded for it. He swallowed hard, forcing the knot in his throat back down.

He missed his family. He missed Deepground.

He wanted to go home.

\--

“Does he pass?” Reno asked. Leaning over Tseng’s shoulder made it difficult to read Cissnei’s scribbly handwriting.

“The short answer is ‘yes’,” Tseng replied, shuffling through the pile of notes. For one hour long interview, there was a disquieting amount of paper. “He’s remarkably functional given what he’s been through. He isn’t psychotic, he isn’t even violent. He does, however, have a hell of a lot of conditioning to overcome. We put him in a situation that had the potential to go bad quickly and it did.”

“He’s a good kid,” Reno agreed. “Gotta say I wasn’t expecting him to go for blood like that. Normally he’s pretty chill.”

“Well, gun to one’s head, I suppose,” Tseng observed. “I don’t suppose he’s ever been taught to play nicely with others.”

That gave Reno an idea.

“He’s banned from the simulator for the next few weeks, right?”

“Yes,” Tseng confirmed. “Why?”

“Have him scheduled for the gym instead. I got an idea.”

\--

Nero was familiar with the weight room and the training simulator, but he’d never been inside a room like this before. The floor was expansive, made of highly-polished light-colored wood divided into sections by different colored lines. A mesh tube hung suspended near the ceiling at either end of the room. The high ceiling was set with multiple fluorescent lights, though in deference to his sensitive eyes, only half of them were turned on.

“S’up Nero,” Reno greeted him. Four other Turks dressed in athletic wear stood clustered with him. Rude and three other rookies from his class: Jericoh, Cassidy, and Otoko.

“Ever play three-on-three?”

“Um,” Nero began, unsure how to answer that. Veld had briefed him regarding innuendo, but he wasn’t sure if this instance was applicable.

“Sports,” Reno clarified, hefting an orange ball chased with black lines.

“No,” Nero answered, glad he’d kept his silence.

“Okay, catch,” Reno shoved the ball at Nero with both hands. Nero caught it somewhat awkwardly.

“The idea is to get the ball through the net. Each team has a net, and you try to keep the opposite team from putting the ball through your net. No weapons, no blood. If you get rough, that’s called a foul and you’re out of the game.”

Nero listened attentively as Reno explained some of the finer points of the game: how to score a basket, what was legal and what wasn’t, and so on.

Rather than chuck him in cold, Reno, Rude, Jericoh and Cassidy split into teams of two and played a quick game while Nero and Otoko watched. It involved a lot of running and jumping and trying to steal the orange ball without actually touching anyone. Nero could see how this might be perceived as fun.

“Think you can handle that?”

Nero nodded. “Yessir.”

\--

By the end of the day, basketball had made it onto the so far _extremely_ short list of things on the surface that weren’t terrible. The list included the food, and the Turk cadre. Nero still hadn’t made up his mind about Veld and Vincent. They had been really nice, but every bit as mercurial as the Restrictors, if far less violent. Sports alone did not merit him staying up here. The problem was that the surface had its own set of incomprehensible rules, and everyone expected him to abide by them. He’d been spending so much time trying to learn surface culture that he wasn’t left with much time to search for his team.

Veld and Vincent had gone out of their way for him. Nero understood that they had allowed him into their home at great personal inconvenience. Staying there meant more nonsensical rules, but that was the price of having a soft bed and good food. Nero still wasn’t used to feeling full; going to sleep without being at least a little hungry. However, he’d willingly starve if he could sleep with Weiss and Rosso on either side of him again.

He was very grateful, touched really, that they’d gone to such lengths for him, but he wasn’t like Shelke. Shelke had not been born in Deepground. She remembered this strange world, and had missed it. She had never stopped dreaming of escape, of one day finding her sister. Shelke had come from the surface, she could survive, even be happy here. Nero wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to manage that, especially on his own. Vincent seemed to think they were going to be best friends. Nero had no idea why Vincent was so hung up on this, or why he kept trying to get all touchy-feely with him. Although he’d tried on several occasions to put his arms around him, Vincent had never pressed the issue, so Nero was reasonably sure that was not the price for staying in their house. It was weird, and not a little bit creepy.

Things would have to change. He was wasting so much time trying to learn to live on the surface, he was forgetting about his duty to his underground loved ones. Deepground might be a smoking crater to Veld and Vincent, but they had no idea how far down the facility went. They didn’t understand that they’d only taken out the vehicle bays and automotive shops- which was probably why there were still fires burning among the chunks of broken concrete. The JOEs, JANEs, Mothers, children, doctors, experiments, everything valuable was deep underground, miles beneath the streets of old Midgar, barely touched. Well, okay, maybe “barely touched” was overstating things. Nero knew for a fact there was quite a bit still standing, still intact. There was every possibility that there were survivors still down there and that Weiss and Rosso and the others were among them.

Nero didn’t doubt that the WRO intended to excavate the crater. However, they would wait until the fires put themselves out, until they could send a team to penetrate from the top down. This would take weeks if not months, and it had already been too long. If they waited much longer all they’d be retrieving was corpses. Nero was not about to let that happen.

He would have to tell Vincent and Veld that he was leaving; that he was thankful, but that this was not something any of them could do long-term. They should not have to look after him as if he were an ignorant child, and he should not have to depend on them like a charity case. He was the only one who could go down deep enough, knew the endless maze of halls and corridors well enough to know where he was going. He was grateful, but he was leaving. Finding his siblings was more important.


	25. Through the Looking Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nero decides not to play along anymore.

He heard it before he saw it. A scurrying and a squeaking, almost like mice in the walls, except it wasn’t in the walls, it was in the room. Veld’s eyes snapped open and he raised himself up on one elbow, squinting in the darkness. Yellow eyes blinked back at him. Yellow, not gold, and set too far apart to be human. Veld seized his gun and leveled it between the thing’s eyes. Twin gusts of shadow made him stop short.

 

“No, wait!” Vincent cried, grabbing his arm, even as a deeper blackness rolled over the yellow eyes, wiping them from existence.

 

“Nero?” Veld asked, fading adrenaline giving an edge to his voice he was powerless to soften.

 

Golden eyes gleamed in the shadows, and despite himself, Veld sighed in relief, thumbing the safety back on.

 

“Nero,” Veld said tiredly, “we discussed this. Use the door.”

 

“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir,” Nero mumbled. “I’ll go.”

 

“Is something wrong?” Vincent asked.

 

“No, Sir. Sorry to disturb you.”

 

“What _was_ that?” Veld wanted to know. “That wasn’t you.”

 

An awkward silence thickened the air. Veld eyed Nero and then Vincent. The latter had a rather guilty look on his face.

 

“That was Ned,” Nero replied, and the yellow eyes reappeared, making Veld jump.

 

“Okay,” he said slowly. “What’s a Ned?”

 

“Oh, well, ‘Ned’ is his name, Sir,” Nero explained. “He’s a shadow creature. I call them ‘squeakies’. Vincent said it was okay so long as I kept them off the furniture.”

 

“When were you planning to tell me this?” Veld tried not to growl.

 

“They’re actually kind of cute,” Vincent began. “They don’t bite, or shed, or poop. They’re just...shadow animals.”

 

Veld rubbed his face with his flesh hand, wondering what sort of ritual sacrifice one had to make in order to get a single night’s sleep.

 

“Why was Ned in our room?”

 

Nero shifted awkwardly, the shadow creature in his arms. “He...he got away from me. No excuse, Sir.”

 

Except that _was_ an excuse. Veld could distinguish truth and lies down to the merest fraction. Nero wasn’t lying, but he wasn’t sharing the full story.

 

“You turned up in here pretty damn fast,” he said, and the look on Nero’s face confirmed his suspicion. “You were already in here, weren’t you? Why?”

 

The boy fidgeted, shifting where he stood, staring at the carpet rather than meeting Veld’s eyes.

 

“I wasn’t in the room, exactly,” Nero mumbled, his mask making a staticky mess of his confession. “I was just in the shadows. I wasn’t watching or anything.”

 

“That doesn’t answer the question.” Veld reached over to turn on the bedside lamp, and shoved the gun back under his pillow. “Why were you in here at all? Is there something wrong?”

 

“No, Sir.” The reply was flat, almost bitter, and there was an unmistakable scowl on Nero’s face as he stared a hole in the carpet. The creature in Nero’s arms squeaked in protest as he squeezed it.

 

Things that squeaked were high on Veld’s list of Things That Don’t Live in My House.

 

“Put that--er, Ned--put it out of the room, please. But don’t leave yet. We’re not done here.”

 

Vincent put a hand on his arm. “Veld--”

 

Veld shook him off. “No. Nero? Now.”

 

Turning, Nero set the creature down. It scurried into the darkest corner of the room and did not return. Veld watched the corner for a moment, but no beady yellow eyes were forthcoming. Turning his attention back to Nero, he noticed that his arms were not crossed over his chest, but held at his sides, hands curled into fists so tight they were shaking.

 

Veld wasn’t about to hand out a verbal smackdown while sitting in bed. He rose, and Vincent scrambled out of bed as well, his expression troubled.

 

“Look, Nero,” Veld began. “We don’t have a lot of rules in this house. I expect the few we do have to be respected. I don’t appreciate being startled out of a sound sleep when nothing is wrong. I don’t know why you felt it was all right to hide in the shadows here when we specifically told you the room was off limits unless you sought permission to enter. Explain.”

 

“I know what the rules are,” Nero said, a heretofore unheard acidity to his words. “No searching for your siblings at night. Sleep in the bed. Wear clothes. Go to school. Go to work. Do your share. Don’t touch the knives. Close the godsdamned door.”

 

Nero heaved a breath so deep that Vincent was surprised his next words did not come out as a sob.

 

“I wasn’t in your room,” he insisted. “I was in the shadows under the bed. In between space. Inside them, below them, however you want to put it. I just…” His deep voice broke, cracked. “...I didn’t want to be alone.”

 

“Nero---” Vincent approached Nero cautiously, shooting a dark look at Veld over his shoulder. “It’s not that big a deal. Veld’s just a little upset.”

 

“Damn right I’m upset,” said Veld. “The two of you may not need much sleep, but I do. I also expect to feel secure in my own bedroom. I need my privacy.”

 

Vincent reached for Nero, and caught himself. Nero wasn’t usually open to a hug, but right now he didn’t even seem receptive to the Deepground equivalent.

 

For a long moment Nero stood silent, trembling. When at last he looked up, his golden eyes burned with an emotion Vincent had never seen there before: anger.

 

“It won’t happen again.” It was not an apology, not even a promise. The words carried all the icy weight of a threat. “No excuse, Sir. Am I to be punished, or may I be dismissed?”

 

“We’ve been over this, too,” Veld snapped. “Stop expecting me to beat you for breaking a rule.”

 

“With all due respect, Sir,” Nero growled, “I’d rather be beaten than do nothing.”

 

He seemed shocked at his own words, but now that he’d said them, all he could do was plow ahead. “Why can’t I look for my brother and sister? Why do I have to waste my time with classes when I could be doing something useful? They could be...hurt. They could be trapped. They could need me. I need them. I’ve been playing at being...being…” he trailed off, lacking the words. With a frustrated noise, he shoved both hands through his hair. “I don’t belong up here.”

 

“I understand you’re worried,” said Veld, his voice losing its sharp edge. “But the area around the crater is still unstable. What’s left of Deepground is not safe for anyone, including you, to go poking around in. As hard as it is to wait, we need to let the WRO stabilize the area first. You don’t want to cause more cave-ins or other destruction. That could make things much worse for any survivors.”

 

“I’ve done some searching,” Vincent added. “There are no signs of Rosso or Weiss among the bodies that were pulled out. I’m not giving up hope yet, and neither should you.”

 

“Do you know how far down Deepground goes? How far out?” Nero challenged. “I do. You got maybe the first two or three levels. There’s like...thirty. Nothing important was kept near the surface. I know where things are. I know what was likely to come down, and what might still be standing. I know Deepground. I know Weiss and Rosso, Azul and Argento.”

 

“I could _find them_ ,” he insisted. “Or I could if the two of you weren’t so obsessed with house-breaking me like a godsdamned pet!” Nero balked slightly, belatedly realizing he might have crossed a line, but it was too late now. “I’m not a child. I’m not a charity case. I’m not...” Again, he did not have the word, and so let the silence hang.

 

Vincent backed up a step. “Is that how it seems to you?” He looked at Veld, who sighed deeply, shaking his head, silent.

 

“Nero,” said Vincent, “I’m sorry. We didn’t mean...we just…”

 

“I’m not going to apologize for giving you a home and a place to establish yourself,” Veld said. “Deepground itself is finished. We’ll go in, try to find your siblings, and get everyone else out that might be trapped down there, but like it or not, this is your world now.”

 

“ _NO!_ ” The shout echoed off the walls. “ _This is not my home! Deepground_ is my home!”

 

Nero stopped, put his hands over his face, took another sobbing breath.

 

“I’m sorry, Sir,” he said, putting his hands down. He was still shaking; both body and voice, though his eyes were dry. “You’ve both been really nice. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” His voice cracked a second time, the following words small and seemingly belonging to someone much younger:

 

“...I want to go home.”

 

Vincent glared daggers at Veld before opening his arms. “Nero, I know you’d...rather be with your _real_ family.” Hearing his own words, he stopped, stepped away. “I know there’s no proof you’re my son. I’d still...I’d be your dad, if I could.”

 

He backed up, grabbed a robe off the chair, and left the room. Veld sighed.

 

“I think it’s time to adjourn this discussion,” he said, glancing at his watch. “It’s two-thirty in the morning. Please go back to your room, Nero. We’ll talk about it later.”

 

Veld had come to expect compliance, obedience, and a certain amount of confusion from Nero. This time, he did not get it.

 

“With respect, Sir,” Nero said, collecting himself somewhat and standing at attention. “There’s nothing to discuss. Thank you for all you’ve done.”

 

He saluted, and though the gesture seemed sincere, Veld couldn’t decide if he was joking or not. For a brief moment he was reminded of Vincent. What little he could see of the defiant expression largely hidden by Nero’s mask was eerily familiar.

 

“With your permission, Sir.”

 

Nero stepped back, and vanished into the darkness.

 

“Shit,” Veld grumbled.

 

\---

 

Veld found Vincent sitting at the kitchen table, a tall glass of whiskey in front of him and a bleak expression on his face.

 

“A little backup would’ve been nice, Valentine.”

 

“You didn’t need my help,” said Vincent without looking up. “You were doing a fine job of chewing out my son all on your own.”

 

“There’s no proof he’s your son,” said Veld. “Unless you count the stubbornness and the resistance to reason.”

 

“If he wasn’t stubborn he’d be dead,” Vincent shot back. “And it’s not unreasonable to want his family back. For damn sure this one’s not working out.”

 

“And whose fault is that? I warned you, didn’t I? Told you that you were expecting too much, but did you listen? Of course not.”

 

“Smug asshole.”

 

“Oh, there’s a cogent argument.”

 

“It’s not an argument, it’s a statement of fact.”

 

“Well, here’s another fact for you. Nero is quite correct about not belonging here.” Veld paused long enough to take a bottle and a small glass out of the cupboard. “He’s a trained killer without a specific purpose.”

 

Veld poured an inch or so of rum into the glass, and sat down across from Vincent. “He’s undisciplined, and he’s powerful enough that he doesn’t have to obey anyone’s rules. We can’t actually make him do anything he doesn’t want to do. We can’t force him to stay away from Deepground, or to stay here.”

 

Grimacing, Veld knocked back half the rum in one gulp. “Hell, we can’t even keep him out of our bedroom.”

 

Vincent blinked. “That’s a sipping rum.”

 

“Not in this house.”

 

Vincent leaned his head on both hands. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I screwed up. It’s my fault he woke you, my fault he brought Ned in. Hell, it’s my fault he even exists! I admit everything. Guilty as charged.”

 

“Well, hooray for you.” Veld drank off the rum in his glass, poured another inch into it. “You’ve cornered the market on blame once again. But just like the last time, it’s not actually helpful.”

 

“Oh, fuck you.”

 

“Not tonight, I have a headache.”

 

Vincent rose, dumped the whiskey into the sink. “Good, because right now I have no desire to touch you. Or to talk to you.”

 

“Likewise.” Veld waved a hand at him. “Go on. Run off as usual.”

 

Vincent rounded on him, slamming a fist on the table. “Gods dammit, Veld, what the hell do you want from me!”

 

“I want you to stay here and deal with the problem!” Veld rose to face him. “Stop running away every time you get pissed at me. That didn’t fly when we were Turks and it won’t fly now.”

 

“I don’t,” said Vincent, voice gone suddenly low and shaky. “Do I…?”

 

“All too often,” said Veld. “It’s time to grow up, Vince. Whether you’re Nero’s father or just his sponsor, he needs your help. And I need your help, too. I can’t do this alone.”

 

“But what are we going to do?”

 

“Find his family,” said Veld, as grim and determined as Vincent had ever seen him. “Nothing will resolve until that’s done. It’s the not knowing that’s driving him crazy.”

 

“I never thought of that,” said Vincent. “And I should have. Gods, I’m an idiot.”

 

“We both are.” Veld looked at the rum remaining in his glass, scowled, and pushed the glass aside. “I’m going back to bed. You coming?”

 

“If you don’t mind sleeping with an idiot…”

 

“I don’t if you don’t,” said Veld.


	26. Lost...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which life goes on.  
> And Nero attends his first slumber party.

They did not see Nero the next day, or the day after. Veld had anticipated the kid would disappear for a good twenty-four to forty-eight hours. He was an adult, a trained SOLDIER, and had a better idea of how the surface worked than he’d had when they’d first found him. Veld would have been lying if he’d said he wasn’t worried about the kid, but he didn’t share Vincent’s distracted concern. It was no good sending a search party out for Nero. Even Vincent would never find him. Instead, they did their best to begin searching for his family without him.

It was curiously hard to focus on the day’s work before the meeting with Tseng. Veld caught himself thinking about Nero, about Elfe, and how he’d manage to trip over himself twice regarding the same damned thing. He might lecture Vincent about expecting too much, about pushing too hard, but had he been any better? Caring for an adult child who hated him yet needed him, and hated him all the more because of it, had been one thing. Nero didn’t hate either of them, so far as Veld knew, but like Elfe, Nero needed help even if he didn’t want it.

\--

“It’s no good going forward without Nero,” Shelke said the moment they sat down. Reeve blinked and turned to Veld and Vincent.

“He needed some time to himself,” Veld said calmly. Vincent opened his mouth, received a swift kick to the ankle from Veld, and closed it again.

“I’m sure we could make a good start with what you know,” Reeve said encouragingly.

Shelke wilted a bit where she sat. “Well, I’ll try, but my knowledge is limited. Nero had the run of the place. Because of his shadows, he knows Deepground better than even the Restrictors knew it. I’ll tell you what I can, but I doubt it’ll be anything you don’t already know.”

Pulling out the schematics of Deepground’s layout, Reeve spread them across the table top.

“Try us,” he challenged gently. 

Shelke’s information was helpful in that what she knew proved the blueprints were old, and either the spaces had never served the functions they had been built for, or had been repurposed since their construction. The schematics were covered with red and green marker by the time the meeting was over, but she had been right. It didn’t actually help much.

“Nero’s been down there,” Vincent commented. “So have I, but I’m nowhere near as good as he is at shadows. If I hadn’t…”

Veld shot him a look and Vincent fell silent.

“Is there something you’d like to share?” Reeve asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Don’t worry about it,” Veld assured him.

“Well, if that’s all, I’d better get going,” Reeve said, gathering up the plans. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Veld offered him a casual salute as Reeve exited. Shelke remained in her seat and gave the two of them a look.

“Okay, what happened?”

On one hand, they could probably use Shelke’s help. She might know of a hiding place Nero had gone to, somewhere Vincent might be able to access. On the other, it meant outing themselves as the bone-headed idiots they were.

“Nero wanted to keep a pet,” Vincent blurted. “I said he could, but I kind of forgot to run it past Veld. It...escalated from there.”

“What do you mean ‘escalated’?” Shelke asked, sounding alarmed.

“Nero ran off,” Veld said flatly. The longer he thought about it, the more he blamed himself in the matter. It was easy to forget- even with the mask and the mako suit- that Nero had not lived his whole life in the sun, and that even the most basic subtleties of daily life were completely alien to him. “I shouted at him and I wish I hadn’t.”

Shelke winced. “Yeah, he’s sensitive that way.”

“Has he contacted you?” Vincent asked, a note of desperation in his voice. “Have you heard from him?”

She shook her head. “Sorry, no. I don’t think he knows where I live. If he did, I’m sure it would have been the first place he popped up. I know he had a cave he liked to hide in, though I’ve never been there.”

“I tried that already,” Vincent said miserably. “He’s probably avoiding it, since he knows I can get there.”

“Probably,” Shelke agreed. “Is there anywhere up here he might go to hide?”

Veld looked up, inspiration sparking his brain. “Actually, I might have an idea.”

\--

“Max?”

Max nearly jumped out of her skin. It was late, she was the only one left in the lab. The project had taken a bit longer than anticipated, and then she’d gotten wrapped up in fine tuning it. The voice in the empty lab had caught her by surprise, but she calmed at the sight of two golden eyes staring at her from a dark corner.

“Oh! Hey Nero.”

Nero stepped from the shadows and crossed the floor to her in only a few long strides.

“Hey Max,” he said, a smile behind his mask. She was on the point of asking “how are you?” but it seemed like a stupid question. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. Darker shadows than usual ringed his eyes, and his shoulders sagged.

“What’s the matter? You look exhausted. And sad.” She came as close as he ever let her, but didn’t try to hug him or pat his arm; he was twitchier than Vincent about personal contact.

He shook his head. “Nothing.” A pause. “I...it’s a long story.” He fidgeted awkwardly where he stood, apparently out of things to say. “I’m sorry. This was a stupid idea. I should go.”

“Nero, wait a second.” Max flicked switches, shutting down the equipment she’d been using, shoved her notebook into her backpack, and turned back to Nero. “Come with me, okay? Just for a few minutes.”

“Okay,” he agreed, falling into step with her.

She led him to the elevator, down to the ground floor and out the front doors. “Come on, I live right around the corner.” 

Her apartment was in a tall, narrow brick building, up three flights of stairs. Max unlocked the door and gently nudged Nero ahead of her. “Go on in.” 

She tossed her backpack onto a chair. “You want something to drink? I’ve got tea and coffee.”

“I...yeah,” he admitted. “I’m...kinda hungry.” He looked away, as if ashamed to admit it. Rather than meet her eyes, he studied the carpet, the walls, the personal items she’d used to decorate. “You have a nice house.”

“Thanks.” She rummaged in the tiny refrigerator, pulling out a small foil pan covered in plastic wrap. “Got some leftover meatloaf. Eat it, it’ll be one less thing in the fridge.”

Passing him the pan, she found a fork and a couple of paper napkins, gave them to him, and then got two bottles of iced tea, and plopped herself onto the couch. She could wait until he’d eaten to find out what was wrong.

“Thanks,” the word came out almost guilty, as if he were sorry she had to bear witness to him eating. Obediently, Nero ate, polishing off the entire pan in less time than she would have thought possible.

“Thank you,” he repeated once he’d finished. “That was really good.”

“No prob.” She handed him a bottle of tea, and took a swig of her own. “What’s up? Veld out of town or something?” If the poor kid had to eat Valentine’s cooking, it was no wonder he was hungry. 

“No, I… I left,” he mumbled, studying the finish of the coffee table. “I just want to find Weiss and Rosso and go home, but I couldn’t do that if I was spending all my time learning how to fit in up here.”

He took an experimental sip of tea. “So...I left. I’ve been hunting for them all week.”

Max took a moment to process that. She hadn’t talked to either Vincent or Veld recently. Knowing them, they wouldn’t have said a word about Nero leaving, the jerks.

“Okay,” she said slowly, “I get that. I thought the WRO was going to help with that, but no one’s said anything about going down there. You shouldn’t have to do it all by yourself. I know you’re a SOLDIER and all, but it’s gotta be dangerous. And it’s huge, isn’t it? How are you going to do this alone?”

“That is the problem,” he agreed. “The WRO won’t get around to searching for weeks if not months. They’re waiting to find a safe way in from the top, and that’ll never happen. I’m the only one who can get down there from any other entry point. Except I’m only one person, and I can only cover so much territory. Deepground covers just as much square footage as Midgar just in surface area, but it goes down as far as the old Shinra tower went up.”

His suit had two pockets on the thighs like a pair of cargo pants, and he reached into one, pulling out the PHS he’d been given. Poking at it, Nero brought up a photo of a hand-drawn map.

“Most of the stuff near the surface is all machinery; vehicles, automotive, stuff that doesn’t matter so much if it’s damaged or discovered. All the important stuff- troops, Mothers, experiments, that’s all down near the bottom. The WRO would start from the top down, and even if they could get in, it’d take ages to dig their way down to anything that matters.”

He enlarged the image so Max could make sense of the homemade blueprint.

“That’s the old main hall, most of it is gone now since Reactor Zero blew up.”

Max had been wondering about the scribbles in red pen. Nero pushed the image over a bit.

“That’s where the barracks are,” Nero went on. “Our room is in there. Problem is, it’s underneath an area that got hit pretty hard. There’s a lot of damage; places where the ceiling’s fallen in and stuff. I can really only shadow into spaces I’ve been before. If the geography’s altered, it makes it not only hard, but risky.”

“Well, I was gonna offer to help, but…” Max peered more closely at the map. “Yeah, no. One more person wouldn’t make any difference. You need the WRO troops to get in there.”

At the look on Nero’s face, she took the PHS from him and set it on the table. “Nero, I don’t want to be nosy, but Veld and Vincent really care about you. They want to help. And Reeve will want to help, too. I don’t know him as well, but he’s the whole reason the WRO exists. He can move mountains when he needs to. You need to get together with all of them and plan this, and do it right. Okay?”

“I’ll help if they want me to,” Nero agreed miserably, “I just don’t think they will. Veld and Vincent...they’ve been awesome but…” Nero trailed off and looked away.

“They won’t help me. I couldn’t follow all the surface rules. I told them as much. I may have shouted. There was...kind of a lot of shouting.”

There was a long and uncomfortable pause before Nero looked up. “I’m not cut out for this, Max. I’m not any good at this. It doesn’t matter how hard I try, I don’t belong up here.”

Max shook her head. Damn, and people said women were too emotional. “I get it, hon. They’re not family. At least not yet. As for the rules, well...screw that. You be you, okay? You need a place to stay?”

“I’ve been sleeping in the cave,” he began. “The only thing is, Vincent knows how to get there. I don’t want to talk to him right now.”

Vincent might know how to get to the mako cave, but it was highly unlikely he would think to look in Max’s apartment. Nero was a SOLDIER, built to function at full capacity on little food and less sleep. That didn’t make it pleasant.

“I should keep looking,” Nero said, hauling himself to his feet. It took far more effort than it ought to.

“Why don’t you stay here tonight? Just to sleep,” Max added, to be clear. They were friends; she didn’t know if it was going to turn into anything else, and only a bitch would take advantage of a guy who was obviously hurting. “You can sleep here on the sofa, or if you want to, you can stay with me. I trust you, and I promise not to make any demands. It’s got to be better than the cave, as pretty as it is.”

Nero nodded, the look on his face painfully grateful. “Thank you. If...if it’s not too much trouble, could I stay with you? I’m not use to sleeping by myself. I won’t do anything, I swear.” He wouldn’t have anyway. The idea of warping Max somewhere strange and inconvenient- or worse still, as distant and unreachable as the place he’d warped his mother- was enough to deter any misguided romantic fancies.

“Sure, babe. You’re skinny enough, you’ll fit right next to me.” Max grinned to show she was joking. “I wouldn’t mind the company. It gets cold in there this time of year, and we’re trying to save on the heat bill.”

“I don’t know how much help I’ll be. Azul says I’m cold-blooded.”

“Well, two bodies are warmer than one, usually.” Max didn’t point out that ‘cold-blooded’ could mean his emotional distance from others. She didn’t know Azul, but she knew Nero, at least a little. He had a good heart.

“I know you’ve got to leave the mako suit on,” she said, opening the bedroom door. “I don’t mind. And we’ve got lots of blankets, so, um…” Not wanting to embarrass him, she pointed out the bathroom door nearby. “There’s the bathroom. I’m gonna shower, okay? If you hear somebody come in, it’s my roommate, Dalton. He’s cool.”

“Um okay,” Nero agreed. “Is it okay if I watch TV?”

“Sure. Just not too loud. Don’t wanna bother the neighbors.” Max winked, and disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door.

No sooner had she closed the door, than the unmistakable jingle of the cartoon channel started up. Nero was fascinated by children’s programs for reasons Max could not define. She supposed if she’d grown up in hell, she might find talking animals and song-and-dance routines mesmerising as well. As predicted, when she emerged, he was planted in front of the TV, staring intently a cartoon short she could have recited by heart.

“You really like those, huh?”

“It’s just so _pretty_ ,” Nero breathed. “I know it’s pretend, but it had to come from somewhere, right?”

“Well, someone’s imagination,” said Max. She’d changed into thin sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt. It worked for sleepwear, and shouldn’t give Nero any ideas. She wasn’t worried, but he’d seemed anxious to assure her that he wouldn’t make a pass at her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move. She turned to look. 

It was short, round-headed, and solid black, but for two bright yellow eyes, with two antennae waving at the top of its head. If it was an insect, it was the biggest one she’d ever seen, about the size of a small child. Funny she’d never seen one before, but then, Nero had never been to her apartment until now.

“Um, Nero? What’s that?” She pointed at the...thing.

A noise- half amused, half exasperated- buzzed through Nero’s mask. “Ned! You were supposed to go home. Why’d you follow me?”

As if beckoned, Ned scurried across the carpet and happily plopped onto Nero’s lap.

“Kiss-up,” Nero said fondly, scratching at Ned’s antennae as if he were a dog. “You got me in trouble once already.” Remembering Max’s question, he picked up the creature, and turned him to face her. “This’s Ned. He’s a shadow creature. Say ‘hi’, Ned.”

Ned, obligingly, lifted a hand-like forepaw and waved.

“Aww!” Max approached, reaching out to touch Ned’s antennae, and stroked a hand over his head. “Hey, he’s pretty cute! He lives with you? That’s cool!” 

Sitting down next to Nero, she grinned at Ned. “Adorable. How’d he get you in trouble?”

“Oh. Well. Um. He’s...kind of what the shouting was about. Among other things,” Nero mumbled guiltily. “I asked Vincent and he said it was okay if Ned came into the house. Veld...disagreed. And we kind of ended up yelling.” He shuddered. “I haven’t talked back to a CO since I was like...three.” Hunching in on himself, he hugged Ned close.

“Sounds grim.” Thinking, Max said nothing for a minute. “You’re working with the Turks now, right? Tseng’s your CO, not Veld. I know he tends to project that old Chief vibe, but...he’s not. And I can’t even imagine Vincent yelling. Do you want me to talk to them? Maybe sort of knock some sense into ‘em both?”

“Gods no!” the terror in his eyes was real and horrible. “No. No it’s...it’s better this way. They don’t want to deal with me anymore. It’s fine, really. I just want to find Weiss and Rosso and go home. I can’t do that if I spend all my time trying to become like them. Like you.”

“Okay.” There was obviously more going on than was apparent from what he’d told her. She’d known Veld since she was nine. Despite his profession, she’d never known him to be violent toward his friends or family. She didn’t think Veld, or Vincent, had been rough with Nero, so why was he so scared? Something didn’t add up.

Making a mental note to talk to either Veld or Vincent, quietly, Max patted Ned again. “So what are you going to do? You admitted that Deepground’s too big for you to search alone. I know Reeve would help, if you ask him, but...no?”

The fear had not left his eyes, but now there was sadness there as well. “Max, it’s been weeks. Almost months. Even a SOLDIER can only last so long. They’re both bigger, stronger, tougher than me. They’re together. They have each other. I want to believe they’re fine, but if they were...wouldn’t _they_ have found _me_ by now?”

“Good point. But on the other hand, if there’s other people still down there, maybe your sibs are taking care of them? If they’re as strong as you say, wouldn’t they try to help the other survivors? Maybe they’re working on a way to get out right now.”

“I guess maybe,” Nero said slowly. “If the Restrictors are dead. Maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced, but he unclenched a little. Ned hopped up and scurried over to sit in Max’s lap instead.

“I can’t go back,” Nero said, almost more to himself than to her. “I left. I can’t go back. I can’t be what they want me to be. I can’t be Vincent’s best friend. I can’t be Veld’s...I don’t even know what. I’m really bad at pants and doors and boundaries and...everything,” he finished despairingly.

With a heavy sigh, he turned to look at the still droning television. Little cartoon moogles were skipping in a ring around a toadstool.

“When Azul talked about the surface...I thought it would be like that. Everyone happy, everyone smiling. No blood, no cold, no reason to constantly watch your back or sleep with one eye open. I guess it was stupid but I thought it would be perfect, that everything would be better. Except…” he trailed off, letting the words hang unsaid. _Except it isn’t._

“I’m so sorry, babe,” said Max, leaning sideways until their shoulders touched. “Sometimes life really sucks, I know. Bad stuff happens up here, too. People die. They lie and cheat and steal, and do worse things, too. I wish I had something better to tell you. I wish I could find your sibs and fix Deepground for you.”

Privately, she doubted Deepground could be fixed, or should be. Even if Nero’s brother and sister turned up alive, how could they go back to living there? Reeve would never allow Deepground to be recreated.

She wanted to put her arms around him, but that didn’t seem wise, knowing how easily he flinched when someone touched him. She stayed where she was, in his space but, she hoped, not so much that he’d get even more upset. She shifted Ned from her lap to Nero’s. 

“Maybe we should get some sleep,” she suggested. “My mom always says things will look better in the morning, when you’ve got a clear head.”

“Okay,” he agreed, gently dumping Ned into his own shadow. Almost shyly, he leaned up against her shoulder for the space of a heartbeat before standing. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” 

She put the empty pan and the bottles into the sink, turning off the TV and most of the lights, leaving one dim light on for whenever her roommate got home. 

“Jump in,” she told Nero, nodding at the bed. “I have to be up at six, I hope the alarm doesn’t bother you.”

“It’ll be fine,” Nero assured her, sliding more than hopping into place. He didn’t bother to draw back the covers, just laid down on top of the comforter. “Fluffy,” he remarked.

Max snickered. “Get under the blanket, silly. It’s okay.” She climbed in herself, holding up the other side of the comforter for him. “Come on. It’s warmer that way. We can sleep back to back so you’re not, y’know, overcome by lust or whatever.” 

“I...what?” Nero faltered, pausing in the act of pulling the blankets over himself. “Why would I start perving on you? We’re just sleeping.” A pause. “Is this another surface thing?”

“It was a joke. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be creepy.” Max clicked off the bedside lamp. “Oh, you better tell Ned not to go out in the living room, or Dalton’s room. I don’t want to freak him out. He wouldn’t care, once he knew what Ned is, but in the middle of the night it might be a little weird.”

“He’ll stay in here,” Nero said rather too forcefully, perhaps for Ned’s benefit. Rooms. Doors. Everyone sure liked their space up here. Then again, he had the cave. It wasn’t so different, really.

“Oh, crap, sorry. I didn’t mean to refer to the mess with Vin and Veld. I should probably shut up now.” Max sighed. She had just gotten a glimpse of the difficulties Vincent and Veld experienced, trying to communicate with Nero. Right now her sympathy was mostly with him, but she could see where things might have gone south with two fussy old men, set in their ways.

“Good night, Nero. Trust me, it will work out, okay?” Maybe that was unwarranted optimism, but wasn’t that better than being convinced that things were going to get worse?

Nero’s eyes shone in the darkness with the infamous SOLDIER glow, twin lamps in the darkness, a pair of fireflies gone astray. For a moment he fixed her in that luminous stare.

“I do trust you,” he said softly, a curious weight to the words. “G’night.”

The glow winked out as Nero closed his eyes, plunging them into complete darkness. Max heard the bedclothes rustle, felt the mattress slant as he shifted, evidently trying to get comfortable. Despite her suggestion that they sleep back-to-back, when she went to resettle, her arm immediately bumped into his. He wasn’t actually touching her, but had aligned himself as close as he could without making physical contact.

He had said he wasn’t using to sleeping alone. He’d lost the only home he’d ever known, left Vin and Veld’s house, and all he had now was a cave and one companion made of shadow. 

_The heck with it,_ Max thought. She slid over a little closer. “I’m cold,” she said. “Is it okay if I snuggle?”

“Um, sure.”

Nero leaned a bit, closing the gap between them. The arm he looped around her was cold, but not icy, probably from the flow of dark mako inside his suit.

“There we go.” Max tucked her head into the curve of his shoulder. “Much better. See you in the morning.”

Nero did not respond. He was already asleep.


	27. ...and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the girls decide to intervene.

Max hurried to thumb the alarm on her phone so as not to wake Nero. She had to stretch; pinned as she was under a hundred-and-some pounds of sleeping Tsviet. Nero had wrapped himself around her overnight, though in a way that suggested someone who sprawled when asleep, and not a vague hope of getting lucky. Nero didn’t seem to think of her that way, which was fine, if slightly disappointing. Maybe someday, but not now, maybe not ever, but that was okay. Hating to wake him, but not sure how to extract herself otherwise, Max poked him gently.

“Hey, I know your fangirls think you’re Mr. McDreamy, but I gotta get to class. Wake up.”

Nero started, body going rigid around her and his eye snapped open. There was a split second of panic, as if he could not remember her face, or where he was, and then it came back to him.

“Sorry,” he yawned, reluctantly pulling his long limbs back. “I should go too.”

“Go talk to Veld and Vincent?” Max suggested. “Really, they’re not gonna let one shouting match affect how they treat you.”

There was something sad and unnatural about fear in sleep-bleary eyes.

“No,” he whispered. “No, I couldn’t.”

“Then talk to Tseng, talk to Reno, move into the Turk barracks. You shouldn’t drop your job even if you have a falling out with your roommates. Maybe you guys just need a little more space of your own. Admittedly, one twin bed in a dorm isn’t a lot of personal space, but it might be an improvement over trying to elbow into the ruts of two crusty old curmudgeons.”

That made him smile.

“A single bed in a dorm, huh?” he mused. “That might be okay. I… It’s hard to fall asleep on my own.”

Max laughed. “Well that’s the first time I’ve heard that phrased as a plus! Now seriously, I gotta get ready. Talk to Tseng!” she shouted as she shut the bathroom door behind her.

\--

Knowing kids today didn’t actually _talk_ on their phones, Veld had thumbed an awkward text to Max, asking if she’d seen Nero. She’d typed back a cryptic note to meet her at the WRO cafe. So here he was, wondering why he was paying six gil for a cup of black coffee and scanning the crowd for her tell-tale periwinkle hair.

She came stomping into the cafe and thumped her backpack onto the table. “Okay, Turkmeister, you and me? We gotta talk.”

She pulled out the chair across from him and sat down. “What the hell did you and Valentine do to Nero? He looks like he went six rounds with Sephiroth!”

“So you have seen him,” some of the tension left him along with the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Dammit, the kid had grown on him. “One of his shadow pets got loose in the bedroom the other night and I almost put another hole in the ceiling. I’m just glad I didn’t hit Nero. I didn’t cuss him out Max, honest to gods, but being woken up in the dead of night by shadow beasts is going to put a guy in a bad mood.”

Veld sighed and sipped his over-priced coffee. He’d paid for it, he was going to drink every last drop. At least it was a decent blend.

“I’ll admit I did not handle the situation as well as I could have, but Nero’s got to understand that if he lives under my roof, he’s got to--” Veld trailed off and rubbed his face with one hand. “Oh sweet Shiva, I’ve become my father.”

“Veld, you and Vin don’t seem to understand something,” Max explained. “Nero’s trying his damnedest to fit in up here, without any training I might add, and you just keep hitting him over the head with new demands. He knows about rules--Deepground was a military organization, for gods’ sake! But our rules don’t make any sense to him. They’re not intuitive. You gotta give him a break!”

“I understand that,” Veld said patiently. “Or I thought I did. Nero _does_ remind me of Vincent sometimes; mostly because he seems to expect me to read his mind. I’m almost at that point with Vincent, but I’ve known him since...well, never mind since when. The point is, Nero doesn’t talk to us. He’s terrified of me, and only marginally less so of Vince. I like my kids to have a healthy respect for my authority, but he keeps projecting his concept of a commanding officer onto me, and I don’t know how I can get him to understand that neither of us are going to hurt him.”

Max bit her lip. “Sorry, Veld. I know it seems like I just came in here to yell at you. And I kinda did, but...I’m worried for him. I asked him to come stay at my place last night, ‘cause he was exhausted. He’s not sleeping well, or eating well, or...well, he’s just wearing himself out looking for his brother and sister. Can’t all the big life lessons wait until you guys find them?”

“We actually had a meeting about that earlier, but without Nero’s expertise regarding Deepground’s layout, it wasn’t very productive.” Veld fiddled with his coffee cup, consulted the table top for suggestions. “Do you think you could get him to talk to Reeve, or even Shelke? He knows her. I know he’s probably not ready to talk to us, but I’d like to know that he’s safe, and we really need his help if we’re going to rescue his Deepground family.”

“I suggested Reeve,” said Max. “He didn’t sound real enthusiastic. I never thought of Shelke, though. She works at the labs, I guess I could go talk to her there. And you could call Tseng. I told Nero to talk to him. Maybe you could ask him to tell Nero to talk to you? Tseng would do anything you asked.”

Veld smiled a little. She wasn’t wrong. Tseng was a good kid, but Veld hated to take advantage of their relationship like that. Still, Nero was more important than any imagined pride.

“I’ll do that,” he agreed. Whether Nero would do so would remain to be seen.

\--

The I.T. labs were on the floor above bio-engineering. Max signed in at the reception desk and went looking for Shelke. 

She wasn’t hard to spot, being the only one who appeared to be about twelve years old.

“Hello, are you Shelke Rui? I’m Max Kimura from the Bio-Eng labs. Can we talk?”

Shelke blinked, somewhat taken aback. “Um, sure. What can I help you with?”

“I’m a friend of Nero Sable’s,” said Max. “And he’s having a really rough time right now. I know you were in Deepground, too, so I was hoping you might have some advice. Veld and Vincent are just messing up on their own.”

“So he’s okay, then,” Shelke breathed in a heavy sigh of relief. “I mean, I figured he was, but I couldn’t help worrying. I heard about their...exchange of words. If you think it’ll do any good, I’m willing to try. What did you want to know?”

Where to start? From the conversations she’d had with Nero, it was clear that almost nothing in Deepground was the same as it was on the surface. It was more surprising that Nero had done as well as he had so far. 

“Well,” Max said, “Nero kind of clashes with Vin and Veld on lots of things. Just ordinary daily stuff, but to him it’s not. How did you adjust to the changes up here? I know you weren’t born down there, but wasn’t it hard coming back?”

“It was harder than I thought it would be,” Shelke admitted. “I was nine when I was kidnapped. I haven’t been free that long myself. I can fit back into the routine up here fine, but I still catch myself jumping at shadows, so to speak.

“It’s funny, I spent a lot of time wishing I was back up here, but when I finally made it above ground, I realized how many bad habits I’d picked up. I think it’s the waiting,” she observed. “You’re always expecting something to happen, a knife in the back, an ambush in a dark corner. I know in my head that that isn’t likely to happen up here, but it’s hard to turn off the reflex.”

Max usually tried very hard not to remember Nero’s story of what had happened to the couple caught kissing in Deepground. It wasn’t easy. Shelke’s words just confirmed that the overall atmosphere had been one of tension, suspicion and fear. 

“Veld told me that Nero’s afraid of him, like he’s always expecting Veld to--I don’t know, smack him around or something. I can tell that really bothers Veld. And Vincent’s a little, well, off, but he’s not the kind to hurt people for no reason. How do we help Nero to accept the fact that Vin and Veld aren’t going to hurt him?”

“I don’t know,” Shelke said. “I...I’m not a psychologist. All I can really tell you is that down there, anyone in authority had almost absolute sway over everything you did. From the Restrictors on down, someone was always ordering you around, and you were often given conflicting orders just so they could watch you flail. Nero…” Shelke trailed off, paused as she studied the floor.

“Nero was special,” she began. “Is special. They never repeated the dark mako experiment for a reason: he was too powerful for them to control physically. Even with the microchips...we might not have been able to escape the borders of Deepground, but I truly believe Nero could have taken down the Restrictors himself if they’d let him think he could do it. I suspect that’s why they were hardest on him.”

“Okay,” said Max, making mental notes. “So let me see if I have this right. Nero’s used to a lot more structure, somebody always telling him what to do. And if he slipped up, they came down on him pretty hard. So the problem is that up here, he’s got too much freedom, and yet when he breaks the rules out of not knowing the right thing to do, they don’t come down hard on him. 

“Poor guy,” she said, shaking her head. “No wonder he’s all freaked out. Everything’s all backwards and upside down.”

“Pretty much,” Shelke agreed. “I really don’t know how you could convince him that by and large, people up here don’t resort to that level of cruelty. It’s not that he slipped up so much as he could never do anything right. Even as a kid, I could see him being set up to fail. The Restrictors _did that on purpose_. It took me a while to figure out why. 

“It wasn’t practical to use corporal punishment on the colored Tsviets; Weiss is too strong, Rosso can’t feel pain, and Azul’s just too danged big. The only way they could keep them in line was by jerking them around emotionally. I’ve seen enough punishments to know it’s not about physical pain, although incapacitating Nero was an added bonus.”

Shelke sighed, pushed her hair back behind one ear. “Nero’s used to being reprimanded for no reason. He has every reason to think Veld and Vincent are setting him up, even if they’re just trying to help. I’m not sure what it would take to convince him that they’re on his side.”

“I do,” Max said, one hand over her mouth. “Oh gods, Shelke. He thinks they’re messing with him on purpose! And then they don’t follow through with the usual punishments. He must think they’re planning something really awful. And the only way I can think of for them to get through to him is to do what he wants most. Help him find his family! I don’t think he can ever go back to Deepground, there’s not enough left in working order. But that won’t matter if he gets his family back.”

She pulled out her phone, checking her schedule. “I have another class this afternoon, but then I’m gonna talk to Veld again. If he can get Tseng to bring Nero, would you be willing to sit in with us? I mean Nero, Vincent, Veld, me, if they’ll let me, and you? He needs their help to find his family, but they all need to work together. Would you?”

“Of course,” Shelke nodded. “I’d be glad to.”

“Great! Thank you so much! Um, I’d hug you, but I don’t know if you do that.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not,” Shelke told her with a shy grin. “I appreciate your asking. And...thank you. I’m glad Nero has a friend in you.”

“He’s a sweet guy,” said Max. “I want to help him out, if I can. I’ll call you about the meeting. Gotta run!”

Shelke waved at Max’s retreating form. “It was nice meeting you!”


	28. Rabbit Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are upside-down and backwards.

Reeve was kind enough to reschedule the meeting. After all, it was important to attempt to excavate Deepground and rescue any survivors that might still be down there. According to Nero, there had been a sizeable civilian population- mostly women and children. However, without Nero, they weren’t going to get very far. The meeting began at ten, but Veld had booked the room for nine. There were other things that needed to be discussed.

Max waited, tapping one foot, while everyone chose seats. Veld and Vincent sat side by side, as usual. Shelke sat between Max and Nero. Seated at the head of the table, Max pointed at Veld and Vincent.

“Why don’t you start? I think you have something you want to say to Nero, don’t you?”

Nero shifted awkwardly, as did Veld and Vincent. Nero hadn’t grabbed his shoulders, but still had his arms crossed tightly over his middle. Veld wondered if this was supposed to be some sort of psycho-physical happy medium?

“Nero,” said Veld, “I’m sorry that I got angry and yelled at you that night. You and Ned caught me off guard. That’s not easy to do.”

Max shook her head. “Yeah, I guess that was sort of an apology. Vincent?”

“Just a minute, I’m not finished,” said Veld. “Nero, if you want people to understand you and your history, you have to talk to them. To us. We may miss the mark often, but we’re doing our best to communicate. Vincent especially has been trying harder than you realize.”

“But it was my fault,” said Vincent to Veld. “I should have told you about Ned.

“Nero, I’m sorry about the whole thing. I want to understand, I’m just...having a really difficult time seeing your point of view.”

Nero looked from Max to Shelke, to Veld and Vincent and back again, clearly on the spot and unsure what to say.

“It’s okay,” Shelke urged. “It’s not like before.”

“Apology accepted,” Nero told them somewhat mechanically. “I’m sorry I broke protocol. It’s...I forget sometimes.” It wasn’t strictly true. What he did far too often was remember, and when he remembered Deepground, he forgot that he wasn’t there anymore.

A pause.

“You...really want to see?” His tone balanced somewhere between disbelief and hopeful.

“Contrary to previous evidence,” said Veld, “yes, we actually do. We need to know what we’ve been missing so we can work with you to get the rest of those people out.”

“Well,” said Nero slowly, “okay.”

Veld started out of his chair as the lights went out, hand automatically reaching for a gun that was not there. Shadows filled the room, deep and thick, more like liquid than an absence of light. Even the glow of Shelke’s mag rods was invisible, so dense was the blackness.

“This is your new home,” Nero’s voice- for once perfectly clear and unmuffled, as if he were not wearing his respirator- penetrated the void. “There will be no escape, no rescue. No one will come looking for you. This is where you will live out your days; how many that will be is up to you.”

The darkness lightened slightly, the liquid dark evaporating into a thick, gray fog. Edges of buildings became visible through the mist, and Vincent grabbed Veld’s wrist tightly.

The massive outline of Reactor Zero loomed in the distance. Nearer at hand old-fashioned buildings crammed together cheek by jowl. Most disturbing of all, solid shadows of people roamed the streets like ghosts dipped in tar.

“These are your new brothers and sisters,” Nero went on. “Either you will bicker, or you will get along. Your choice. Just know that no one else will fight your battles for you. If you start a fight, you had better be able to finish it.”

Off to one side, a group of shadows suddenly began fighting. Not arguing, but a knock-down, drag-out brawl that resembled a miniature prison mob swarming one hapless victim. When they stepped back, there was only an oily black puddle left.

“Nothing is given. If you want something, take it, but be ready to defend it. Be ready to defend yourself.”

One of the shadows- male from the look of him- shoved a smaller figure against the wall. Afraid he was going to have to watch another murder, Veld gagged as the larger shadow gave the smaller a pounding of a different kind. The smaller statue squirmed, kicked, and clawed, but did not manage to break free. The other shadows seemed to take this in stride. Most just kept walking. One or two paused to cheer on the assailant. No one came to the rescue of the smaller one. Finally set free, the smaller shadow staggered away between two of the buildings, pursued by a couple of other larger shadows.

A whimper from Shelke made Veld turn away. She stood trembling, mag rods gripped in both hands. Tears cut down her cheeks over a decidedly queasy expression.

“‘Fair’ is a four letter word. We do not use it,” Nero went on. It wasn’t just his words, but his tone that was so chilling. He might have been commenting on the weather; his speech light and conversational. “Begging for mercy or justice will not be indulged. If you cannot measure up, then you will not last. Know that ‘wrong’ is something only you perceive. Maybe you had it coming. Maybe you deserved it. If there is a wrong, it’s in you.

“We are all subject to the same rules. Some are written, some are not. You will memorize and obey them all, or risk punishment.”

Two shadows kissed in a corner, almost unnoticed until a third, much larger shadow, cloaked and crested, came up to them. A gunshot echoed loudly and Max shrieked reflexively, knowing what had happened. She’d seen this once already, in less graphic detail. It had been bad enough as animated silhouettes on a cave wall. There was no way she could watch this in 3D.

“This is home?” Vincent hissed. “This is is what he wants to go back to?”

“Easy, Valentine,” said Veld. He shifted, trying to ease the pressure on his wrist. Vincent’s grip ground the bones together. It was all Veld could do not to yank his arm away, assuming he could pull free of Vincent’s hold.

“Yes,” Nero’s voice echoed. “This is my home. Our home.”

“How?” said Vincent, his voice hollow as death. “You’ve shown us brutality layered on brutality. You can’t possibly miss this kind of cruelty. I don’t understand.”

Nero materialized from out of the labyrinth of shadow buildings, as dark and ethereal as one of the cast of shadow people he’d created. “I know you don’t, which is why I’m trying to show you. That’s the speech I give to every batch of new recruits, except you didn’t let me finish.”

With a sweep of his hand, the cast of shadows disappeared, and Nero with it. The dim light faded, night seeming to descend on the already dark city. A pinprick of white light stabbed through high overhead. Multiple dots of light winked into existence; an indoor milky way of stars strung together with ropes of white. A spiderweb of light was growing, spreading across the cavern. It took Vincent a moment to realize what it was: a map.

These were Nero’s routes through shadows, access shafts, tunnels, and caverns throughout Deepground. A couple of children raced past, black shapes against the white light. One was long and thin, the other shorter and much wider. A little girl followed closely.

“There are ways to exist here,” Nero said quietly. “Everyone here is a prisoner. Everyone. That includes me.”

The shadow children chased each other up and down the tubes of bright light, rapidly changing direction as each tagged the other. Several times all three of them tumbled to the ground, play fighting until two of them got up and ran away again. Eventually they stopped running, and Vincent noticed they’d gotten taller, leaner, yet far more graceful than adolescents had any right to be. One shoved the other, and was shoved in turn. One put the other in a headlock and viciously ruffled their hair. It was rough, but did not quite cross into bullying. After a moment the children- teenagers now- sat side-by-side, shoulders touching.

“You have been forgotten,” Nero’s voice echoed, “but that does not mean you are alone.”

The network of bright tunnels faded, the buried city rising up to become visible once again now that the harsh, white light had gone.

“Look again.”

“What am I supposed to see?” asked Vincent. “That’s you and Rosso and Weiss. That much is obvious. There’s no room for anyone else in your family, that’s also evident.”

Nero gave a frustrated growl and turned to face him.

“No, there isn’t,” he snarled. “Get it through your head. I don’t know you, you don’t know me. Stop fawning all over me like you want something!”

The Nero Veld and Vincent had known would never have dared such an outburst. Perhaps the shadow world he’d created inside the conference room had given him confidence. Even Shelke seemed somewhat taken aback.

“Look, I’m grateful for what you’ve done, but if that’s the price...then no. I don’t need your help that badly.”

Nero rasped what was probably supposed to be a deep, calming breath, the inhalation crackling loudly in the silence. “Let me try putting it another way.”

“What would you do if your world was turned upside-down?” Nero dared. “What if everything you knew was suddenly wrong? Everything that came second nature to you, things you’d been doing since you were born, can get you killed.”

Additional shadows snaked up from the floor, coiling around Veld and Vincent’s legs, climbing up their bodies. Despite himself, Veld gave a shout and tried to dance away from the encroaching darkness. He calmed slightly as the shadows formed a veil of sorts over his body, masking his clothes with a deep gray likeness of a Deepground uniform.

“Everything is painful, and terrifying,” Nero went on. “Everyone knows the rules except you. No one will tell you what the rules are, and if by some miracle you manage to figure out one or two of them, they change. All the time you know you’re being watched, so that the minute you fail, everyone will know, and it will all be so, so much worse.”

Nero stepped forward, looking each of them dead in the eye for a moment. “Your only way to protect yourself, is to keep the people in charge happy, but most days, you can’t even manage to do that right. You do your best, but it’s never good enough, but it’s all you can do.”

The silence hung thick and heavy for several seconds.

“I know that’s how you’d feel about Deepground, if you were captured,” Nero said quietly. “That’s...that’s how I feel about the Surface.”

Shelke edged over to him, standing close enough that their arms touched.

“You should have said something,” she murmured. “I would have helped you.”

Nero nudged her arm with his. “You were born into this world. You belong here. I don’t.”

From the moment Nero had snarled at him, Vincent had gone silent and still. He hadn’t even reacted when Veld had started at the shadows crawling over them. Now he turned toward Nero; with his enhanced eyesight, he could probably see him perfectly well in the darkness.

“It’s all wrong,” he said, voice cracking like rotten stone. “That life. The way you look at it, the way you look at _us_. You’re just as blind as you think we are.” 

He shoved his chair back, shaking his head. “How you could misunderstand _that_ badly? What am I doing wrong?”

Taking a hesitant step forward, Shelke tried to explain. “Surface behavior will only get you in trouble down there. If the Restrictors know what’s important to you, then they’ve already won. They know how to hurt you, how to hurt _them_. That’s why you don’t dare touch, don’t show what you’re feeling. The moment you do, you’re screwed, and so is anyone you care about.”

It was a speech she’d given many times, with many variations to recruits too stupid and too soft to be in Deepground.

“You learn to keep it to yourself. There are other ways, quiet ways. Things they won’t notice.” 

“Yes. That. What she--” Nero broke off, paused, terrible realization dawning in his eyes. “They were from the Surface too. No _wonder_ you don’t get it.”

“Nero,” Shelke scolded gently. “Don’t. Deepground is as foreign to them as the Surface is to you.”

Nero had nothing to say to that. Shelke edged closer to Vincent and lightly touched her arm to his, as she had with Nero earlier. “Yes, it was horrible, but there were reasons to keep going, things that made it bearable. You can still find compassion in dark places.”

For once, Vincent was the one who flinched at the contact. He pulled away, breathing hard. 

“Don’t. Don’t touch me.”

Veld looked away from the shadows, to Vincent. “Vince? What’s wrong?”

Shelke slid away, still within arm’s reach, but out of Vincent’s personal bubble. Nero tilted his head, eyeing Vincent as he fought for calm.

“Hey,” he said, tone calm yet commanding. “Talk to me.”

“I...I can’t…” Vincent twitched, took a step back, eyes darting around the room, lighting on each person in turn. Emotions flickered over his face, spinning like a roulette wheel from confusion to fear to manic delight, and stopped. His mouth stretched into a grin. 

“Shadow-mage,” he purred. “Are you the one Valentine claims?” The grin widened. “Baby Valentine, eh?” He snapped a finger on the edge of Nero’s mask. “Let’s see, little Shadow!”

“Oh, gods,” Veld muttered. “Mask, get out. No one wants you here.”

“Mask?” Nero echoed, gently yet firmly taking hold of Mask’s wrist and moving his hand away from his face. “Don’t think I’ve met you before.”

“I’m Valentine’s better half,” said Mask. He held up both hands in front of his face, peering out between his fingers, grimacing. “ _Hellllmasker!_ ”

He swung around, pointing at Shelke and Max. “Two little morsels! Verrrry nice.” Turning back, he reached toward Veld. “Pretty Bronze! Play with me?”

“No,” said Veld. He rose, dodging Mask’s grasping hands. “Last warning. Let Vincent go and leave us alone, or I’ll put you back where you belong the hard way.”

The grin fell away from Mask’s face. He jerked his right arm, and a knife appeared in his hand. 

“You wanna play that way? Fiiiiine,” he drawled, dropping into a crouch. “Who’s first? You or shadow mage?”

“I’ll play,” Nero volunteered, putting himself between Mask and the others. “Just you and me. One-on-one.”

“Nero,” said Veld, “you don’t understand. He’s got all of Vincent’s...enhancements. Strength, speed, combat training. What he doesn’t have is empathy. He’ll gut you as soon as look at you. Let me handle him. He knows me.”

Nero looked at Veld as if he were crazy. “I’m a SOLDIER, a colored Tsviet. I can do this. It’s okay.”

Turning to Mask, Nero gestured at the knife. “How ‘bout you put that away?”

“Mine,” Mask growled, holding the knife a little closer to himself. “Can’t have it.” The grin twisted. “Why don’t you come and get it?”

“Didn’t ask you to give it up,” Nero said calmly, “just to put it away. I don’t want it.”

“Don’t wanna,” Mask grumbled. “Don’t….don’t want…” 

He shook his head, scowling. The knife disappeared, though whether he dropped it or hid it away was anybody’s guess. He backed against the wall, panting.

“No...! Mask...N-Nero…?”

The darkness melted away, condensing, converging on a single spot, leaving only Nero standing in the stark white light of the conference room.

“It’s okay,” Nero soothed. “I’m on your side.”

“Nooo, not fair! Never get out to play…” Mask slid along the wall toward the door, his voice rising and falling, one moment Vincent’s deep tones, the next higher-pitched, wavering and cracking. “Out….need to get out…!”

“Vincent!” Veld started toward him. “Nero, be careful. He fights dirty.”

Nero held up a hand for Veld to stay back, never taking his eyes from Mask. “Stay here with me. We can play. Just us. Okay?”

Vincent’s red eyes darted from Nero to Veld and back again. “I want to stay…”

He reached out, grasping Nero’s arms. “Stay...with me?”

Nero flinched, but held on. “Yeah, I’ll stay with you. It’s okay.”

Vincent sagged against him, staggering them both. For a moment, Nero’s strength held both of them upright. Slowly, Vincent got his feet under him, then straightened up, pulling away. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Never wanted you to see that.”

“Is he gone?” Veld asked.

“Yes, but I...I need out. Now.”

“Nero, do you mind waiting?”

“Yes, Sir,” Nero replied. “I mean no, Sir. That is...I don’t mind.”

\--

Veld followed Vincent to an empty office across the hall. Vincent sank onto a chair, both hands gripping his head.

“I can’t do, this, Veld.” Vincent could barely speak around the lump in his throat. “I. Cannot. Do this.”

“Breathe, spook,” said Veld, one hand on Vincent’s shoulder. The pressure of his fingers made a lifeline for Vincent to hang onto, to hold his troublesome headmate at bay. Mask cackled with laughter, crowing obscenities, all knives and blood. Vincent pressed his palms tight against his head, holding the bastard back by sheer will.

“Can’t,” he panted. “Please, just...get out, go, _now!_ ”

“Nope,” Veld murmured, sliding his arm along Vincent’s shoulders. “Come on, Vince. Deep breath, that’s it. Hold it, four, three, two, one...let it out now, four, three, two, one. Again…”

The steady cadence of Veld’s voice guiding him, Vincent obeyed, breathing in, out, in again, while his heartbeat slowed and his demons subsided. The pressure in his head, in his mind, eased, little by little. Vincent closed his eyes, deliberately blanked his mind of everything but the warmth of Veld’s touch, his voice, his presence. Mask’s grumbling faded away, taking with it the creeping certainty of impending disaster. Slowly, the shaking subsided

Forcing Hellmasker to back down always gave him a headache. Worse than that, worse even than the humiliation of turning into a crass, egomaniacal lunatic in front of his friends and his son, was the deeper pain of knowing that he could never mean anything to Nero, would never be a part of the family Nero wanted. 

“Better now?” said Veld.

“No. What am I doing wrong, Veld? We’ve given him a home, a job, simple friendship. He expects violence in return--he thinks I’m trying to coerce him into bed with me! I’m losing him, just like--”

“Vincent. Forget the rest of it for a minute. Nero is not Sephiroth. You can’t force him into that space in your heart. Nero is Nero, and you have to accept him, or not, for who he is, not who you want him to be.”

Vincent flinched. “Is that what I’m doing? I didn’t mean--oh, gods.” The shaking started again; it wasn’t Mask this time, just the shock of an unwelcome revelation. 

“But...Nero wasn’t afraid of me...of Mask. He said he’d stay. Did he mean with Mask, or...with me?”

Veld sighed. “Vincent, I need to say this, even though you won’t like it...”

“I’m listening.”

“Nero was right. He doesn’t belong up here. Deepground will never be what it was, thank the gods, but if that kind of strictly-regimented life is what he wants, what he needs, then I don’t want to stand in his way. We were wrong to try to force him to fit into surface society. Let him create what he needs with his family, once we find them.”

“And if they’re dead?” Vincent asked, very quietly.

“Then he can make an offer to those who survived: Make a new Deepground, one with the kind of rules and values they all understand.”

Vincent shuddered. “You can’t mean that. You saw what it’s like: Every man for himself, the strong preying on the weak….Even with the Restrictors gone, it’s still limited, still brutal.”

“And what kind of system did we adhere to, as Turks?”

“That was different!”

“No. The difference was, we had a choice. If Nero wants to live that way, if he finds others who choose, of their own free will to, to do the same, they have that right.”

“Is it really a choice if it’s all he’s ever known?” Vincent shot back. He was pushing, and he knew it, but he couldn’t stop. “That was indoctrination talking, not free will! He’s taking the easy way out.”

“Maybe, but it’s not our decision. It shouldn’t be.”

Between the pounding in his head and the queasy feeling in his gut, Vincent couldn’t find a hole in Veld’s logic. Underneath the instinctive denial, it all made sense. 

“Why?” he said, knowing the answer would only make him more unhappy.

“Look at it this way, Vince,” said Veld. “To us, the violence and cruelty outweigh the kindness. To Nero, it’s the other way around.”

“All right,” Vincent said, although it wasn’t. He couldn’t argue anymore. Thinking it through, he found other things to worry about.

“What if they become a new threat to us? You once said Nero’s too powerful to ignore.”

“We’ll be on guard,” said Veld. “We know what to watch for. You may not be the expert Nero is, but with your affinity for shadows, and Chaos as a backup, we can defend ourselves if we must.”

“I won’t treat my son as an enemy!” Vincent hissed. “He may not want me in his life, but I won’t turn my back on him.”

“We can keep the lines of communication open,” said Veld. “But here and now, we stop treating him as a lost soul who just needs a hot meal and a blanket to be like the rest of us.”

Vincent winced; he’d dragged Veld into this, brought Nero into their home, forced Veld to accept him. Not cool, Valentine. Veld had a right to be impatient with him, a right to be done with the whole situation.

“I’m sorry,” Vincent whispered. He couldn’t get his voice to work properly. “Don’t...be angry, Veld, when I say it’s my fault. It is. And I’m sorry.”

Veld knelt next to him, put his arm around him. “You’re forgiven. Now, what do you want me to do?” 

“What?” Vincent turned his head. Veld reached, brushed Vincent’s hair out of his face.

“What do you want?” he repeated gently. “I’ll do it, whatever it is. Just tell me. It’ll be okay.”

That was more grace, more generosity, than he had earned, more than he deserved. It gave him strength. 

“Help me find his family,” Vincent said. “We promised.”

“We’ll do that,” said Veld. “And afterward?”

“Help me let him go,” said Vincent. “At least he’ll be alive. That’s more than I got the last time I lost a son.”

Veld started to speak, perhaps to disagree, to argue, perhaps to admonish. Vincent watched him change his mind. “If that’s what you want, spook, then we’ll do that.”

“It’s not what I want,” said Vincent. “It’s what Nero wants. I can’t expect anything more.”

“That’s probably true,” said Veld, rising and pulling Vincent up with him. “You think you can live with it?”

Vincent nodded. “I have to.”

\--

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Nero mumbled, mask fizzing with the words. “It was a stupid idea. All I did was scare everyone.”

“I just wasn’t expecting it,” Shelke soothed. “It’s okay, really.”

“No it isn’t,” he argued. “I know you’re just being brave. I should have thought about that.”

“It’s okay,” she insisted.

Forlornly, he looked at Max. “If you don’t want to talk to me anymore, I understand.”

She blinked. “What? Why wouldn’t I want to talk to you? Honestly, guys can be so dense.”

She rose and went over to Nero. “I know Deepground was a violent place. You told me enough, that one time in the cave, to make it clear. But the world’s….not a safe place. I’m not a kid, Nero. I don’t believe in unicorns and glitter fairies. You don’t have to sugar-coat anything for me. I’m not going to hate you for being honest. Okay?”

He seemed a bit taken aback by her answer, but nodded. “So you don’t think I’m a psycho? Or that I don’t like you more than the people I knew underground?”

“You’re not a psycho,” Max said. “I’ve known a few. As for the rest...we’re still friends, aren’t we? I mean, we are as far as I’m concerned. Vincent’s got his own issues. You’ll have to ask him what that was all about, it’s not my story to tell. All I know is, I’m still cool with you if you’re cool with me.”

Behind his mask, Nero grinned. “We’re cool.”

The door opened, letting Vincent and Veld back into the room. Neither one said anything more about why they’d left. 

“All right, Nero,” said Veld, as cool and professional as only a Turk could be. “You’ve had your little show, and we get the point. Now let me make one as well. We all had a home. Good or bad, rough or soft, we all came from somewhere. Believe it or not, we old men and women miss our old homes, too. We want that solid ground, that familiar routine. 

“But we all have to grow up. For most of us, growing up means leaving home. Time only moves in one direction: Forward. I’m sorry this happened the way that it did, but all it really did was push you out of the nest. 

“Here’s the deal. Work with us. Between your shadows and your knowledge of Deepground, and the sheer muscle of the WRO, we’ll search the compound stone by stone until we find every survivor, pull out everyone who didn’t make it. I hope your family survived. But either way, you’re going to have to take the result and move on, make a life however and wherever you can. Anything less dishonors every principle you believe in.”

He glanced at Vincent. “Anything to add?”

Vincent stared at the tabletop, rather than meet Nero’s eyes. “I understand about family,” he said, his voice thick in his throat. “I promised to help you find yours, and I will. Anything else is...not a consideration.”

Veld looked back at Nero. “And there you have it. Let us know what you decide.”

“Yes, Sir,” Nero said, bristling slightly at Veld’s speech.

Max gave Veld a Death Stare before turning back to Nero. “I think he means ‘life sucks, now get on with it.’ In his own nasty Turk way, he’s saying he wants to get started on the work and everybody should stop crying about it.”

Veld gave her a poison smile. “That’s close enough.”

\--

Reeve entered the conference room and was greeted by five uniformly haggard expressions.

“...did the coffee shop close, or did I miss something?” he asked.

“Forget it,” Veld told him waving the remark away perhaps too forcefully with one hand. “Nero was...just trying to give us an idea of what we’re walking into.”

“I’m sorry I missed it,” Reeve said, juggling a couple of long rolls of blueprints. “These were the most recent plans I could get my hands on. Nero, if you wouldn’t mind?”

Nero and Shelke stepped forward to examine the old architectural drawings. Nero’s brows creased as he squinted at the tiny print.

“Is this supposed to be Level A?” he asked, pointing at the labels.

Reeve shrugged. “You’d know far better than I would. What’s on Level A?”

“Nothing on here.” Nero shuffled the papers, looking at the other plans, sighed, and pulled one at random from the pile, spreading it out.

“Okay, none of these are any good,” he began. “So Deepground’s like up here, except in reverse; everything goes down instead of up.”

Veld blinked as shadows rose up from the blueprints in solid shapes- miniature halls, rooms, and corridors. Some of the details were glossed into generalizations- classrooms, dormitories, barracks, storage bays- while others were rendered in meticulous detail. The shadow models rose up, each on their own floor, like plates on a tea tray. There were more layers to Deepground than he had imagined, at least as many circles of hell as there had been floors in the Shinra building: close to seventy.

“Level A is the highest,” Nero began. “It’s unimportant stuff: vehicles, weapons, ammunition, stuff that if it was found, it wouldn’t matter all that much. All the sensitive stuff is way down here at the bottom.

“Just looking down from the top, Levels A through G are more or less gone.”

The shadow miniature collapsed on itself, forming a crater the size of Veld’s head.

“The alphabet floors end on Level L,” Nero went on. “After that, it goes by numbers. They descend as you go deeper. There’s no people housed on the alphabet floors. That doesn’t start until level fifty. It’s in rough shape, and I haven’t seen anyone in there yet, though all I did was make a cursory sweep.

“The storage record vault and the mainframes are all on level ten, it's also the ground floor of Reactor Zero. There’s still more stuff under it, but again, it’s mostly storage. The only things below that are the mako caverns.

“The Mothers are over here, under Sector Six. The children are right next to them under Sector Seven. The barracks are in Sector Four. The barracks got hit hard, and there’s a lot that’s fallen in. As far as I can tell, the Mother’s area looks okay, and so does the kids’. It’s the troops and Tsviets area that got squished.”

Each of the sectors covered multiple levels, and Veld felt his stomach sink at the sheer scale of the task in front of them. From the look on Reeve’s face, he had also realized that they might have bitten off a bit more than they could chew.

Vincent studied the areas that Nero had highlighted, drawing on what little he remembered clearly from the night Chaos had trashed Deepground. 

“There were a lot of bodies in the halls went I went through looking for your records,” he said, without looking directly at Nero. “I’m assuming those were mechanics, office workers, some troops, and so on. I didn’t see any kids, thank the gods.”

He glanced at Veld. “What I’m wondering now is whether Chaos--um, if we got everything we intended to get. Nero, where were the labs located?”

“Well, the people-labs are over here,” Nero pointed. “There’s the ones for the soldiers, and the ones for the Mothers and kids. They kept the mongrels over here,” he pointed at the other end of the complex. “I wouldn’t worry about those. Animals are smart. If they survived, they can take care of themselves.”

“Mongrels?” said Vincent.. “...You know what, never mind. What about the scientists? I assume they were housed in the lower levels as well. Could you give us a list of the people you remember...doctors, other medical people? There may be people we’ll want to question, if they survived."

“I can try?” Nero hazarded. “I only really knew the ones who dealt with the soldiers.”

Shelke looked up at him, a sceptical look on her face. Nero glanced at her and she looked away, expression once again smooth.

“I can...provide you with a list of people from my unit,” Nero said slowly. “I can’t speak for anyone else’s.”

Veld hadn’t missed the byplay between the two former Deepground residents. 

“Nero,” he said, “this isn’t going to work unless we’re all on the same page. Our main goal is to get the survivors out and to locate your family. However, Deepground as an organization represented a threat to the surface world. A lot of what went on down there was unauthorized research and experimentation. Anyone who worked in those labs should be able to provide information. We need to talk to them. So is there something you’re not telling us?”

“I can't tell you what I don't know,” Nero said, a slight huff to his words. “We weren't supposed to know or care about what went on in the labs. Most of them wore surgical masks all the time. I didn't know their faces much less their names.”

“I can help with that,” Shelke spoke up. “I was a bit more nosy that way.”

“All right,” said Veld, still looking at Nero. “That would be good.”

Max looked from Veld to Vincent, to Nero and Shelke, and back.

“I think that about wraps it up, unless there’s anything else…?”

“Nope,” said Veld, packing up the maps. 

As they all moved toward the door, Vincent stopped Nero before he walked out.

“One question. What was your title, in Deepground? Commander? General?”

“Commander Sable; General, Third Division,” Nero replied, monotone.

Vincent nodded. “Fine. Commander Sable it is from here on, then.” 

He turned to leave. “Until later, Commander.”

It was cold, and he knew it; and that was the way it had to be.


	29. Dealing With the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vincent tries, and fails, to get some answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or...  
> In which I am an idiot and posted the wrong chapter last time.  
> Gah.  
> Sorry folks, we now return you to your regularly scheduled fic.

Vincent needed solitude for a private conversation. Reeve’s balcony wouldn’t do; he didn’t want Reeve, even unintentionally, overhearing. Anything he could reach by shadow was also out of the question, being accessible to Nero.

He chose a catwalk on the east side of a water tower at the edge of town, and found an angle that cast as little shadow as possible. Not that Nero was likely to turn up, after everything they’d said to each other, but better safe than sorry. It wasn’t the time, or the right circumstances, for Nero to hear what Vincent was going to say.

Chaos had left him with the ability to take on his form, and that gave him a direct line to Chaos’s conscious mind. Prodding him awake took effort; Vincent resorted to a vicious mental jab that would have left permanent damage if Chaos had been mortal, and vulnerable.

He was neither. He hit back.

Vincent staggered, his head striking the wall of the tower behind him. For a moment stars spun before his eyes. “ _Fuck!_ ”

“Oh it’s you,” Chaos muttered. “Why do you wake me, mortal?”

“Cut the pretentious crap,” Vincent snapped. “You screwed up, Chaos. You screwed up royally.”

“Meaning what?”

“Deepground! You barely touched it!”

“Impossible.” Chaos gave a haughty toss of his horned head. “I destroyed most of it! You were there!”

“Yes, I was, and thanks for nearly killing me as well, you prick.”

“You cannot die. We are bonded. Your strength is bound to mine,” said Chaos, with a sour note that suggested he regretted that fact. “What is this talk of failure? Was it not burning as we finished? Were there not corpses strewn like salt in the fields?”

Vincent blinked. “You need to stop reading those florid romance novels. Look, the point is you only got the levels closest to the surface. They weren’t important. There are at least a hundred lower levels that weren’t even touched. You may have trashed a few labs, and I know people died, but there was more. Much more.”

“How do you know this?” Chaos growled. Always one for melodrama, he somehow managed to give off a whiff of brimstone, wings rippling with a sound like distant thunder.

“I have my sources.” Not about to mention Nero, Vincent pushed back. “What the hell are you trying to pull? You’re a _Summon_ , for gods’ sake! You could’ve gone deeper, destroyed everything! Why didn’t you?”

“Are you accusing me of deliberately holding back, mortal?”

Vincent crossed his arms, eyeing Chaos. “Did you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Chaos huffed. “Did it feel like I held back? Would you prefer I had dragged you with me into the depths of that Shinra-inspired hell? Even you might not have escaped without injury!”

“That never stopped you before.”

In the depths of his mind, Chaos loomed like the demon some named him, wings spread, eyes glowing like balefire. “Do not dare to chastise me, human! There are matters you know nothing of!”

“Not buying it. The more I think about it,” said Vincent, drawing on what memories of the fight were clear in his mind, “the more I realize you moved people out of your way without killing them...almost like…”

_Chaos blasting holes in the ceilings and corridors of Deepground…_

_Chaos striking with rabid fury, throwing Deepground troops around like broken dolls…._

_Chaos, flinging a dark, familiar figure into the void…_

_Into shadow._

And afterward, very soon afterward if memory served, Chaos had pulled up and out, leaving a smoking crater, and one Vincent Valentine senseless on its threshold.

“You were looking for Nero!” It had to be true; it was the only thing that made sense. “Shadows are his element, his craft! You knew tossing him into the void wouldn’t kill him.”

Vincent reached for Chaos, grabbing the Summon-spirit’s arms. “Why? What do you want from him? What the hell are you doing?”

Chaos simply melted from his grasp, appearing again some distance away. “That is not your concern, human.”

“It is my concern, damn you! He’s my son!”

“Perhaps. Genetically.” Chaos shrugged, dismissing Vincent’s words. “Spiritually, he is nothing of yours.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Every living creature has its part to play, in the grand scheme of things…”

“This isn’t a game!”

“...and his is not yet written.” Chaos’ wings stirred, ragged, red-black, rising over his shoulders. “I tire of this conversation. Complain as you will, Sable’s destiny is not yours to rule.”

“What are you talking about…?” Vincent made another grab for Chaos as his form began to fade. “Don’t you dare leave me hanging like that!”

Chaos sighed. “Foolish humans…”

He was gone.

Falling back into reality, Vincent sank down on the catwalk, shutting his eyes against the glare of the sun.

“Destiny,” he spat, the word bitter on his tongue. “Damned arrogant interfering asshole!”

From the back of his mind, a voice with a smirk in it called out, _You’ll thank me one day, Valentine. After all, I saved his life, didn’t I…?_

He was right, damn him to the hell he’d spawned in.


	30. Shadow Boxing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nero and Vincent settle their differences like gentlemen.  
> Sort of.

Perhaps because there was now a plan in place to begin excavating Deepground for survivors, Nero returned to work. Tseng welcomed him back without comment, letting Reno deliver the lecture and the hug- metaphorically at least. Rather than return to Veld and Vincent’s little house, Nero took up formal residence in the Turk barracks. He’d left the back bedroom spotlessly neat, as if he had never been there. Nero was not discourteous when he ran into Veld and Vincent at work, continued to treat them as officers, but his point had been made. He was not a child, and while he would still report to them as his sponsors, he would no longer live under their roof.

It would take time to get everything in place. Although Nero wanted to begin the exploration immediately, he would have to be patient a bit longer. If he and his siblings were all to live on the Surface once they found each other, it would be best to work on the parts he could actually manage. As such, he continued his training with the Turks.

Nero had assembled quite a fan club. A not insignificant crowd of spectators gathered to cheer him on whenever he entered the training simulator. The only problem was that they were completely out of people who were willing to face off with him. The SOLDIER he’d accidentally stabbed had been the first and last casualty. There were no hard feelings, indeed he was now a good friend. However, even the SOLDIER veterans weren’t willing to take him on. The Turks just laughed at the suggestion. Mere mortals were no match for a Tsviet. There were discussions about imposing a handicap of some sort on Nero to make it a fair fight when Vincent stepped forward.

“You sure about this?” Veld asked as Vincent made ruthlessly sure that there were no live rounds left in Cerberus before reloading it with paint balls.

“It’ll be fine,” VIncent assured him, holstering the weapon. “We already know Chaos can’t hurt him.”

“It’ll be a good chance to practice shadowing,” Nero put in by way of assent. However, Veld watched uncertainly as Nero selected a dummy weapon for the first time: a high-calibre pistol similar to Vincent’s. Veld raised an eyebrow at this, but Nero just shrugged.

“What? He’s immune to shadows. I gotta have something.”

It was sound logic and Veld nodded approvingly as Nero stepped into the arena.

“Body shots only!” Veld called after him, the same nagging sense of impending disaster beginning to gurgle in the pit of his stomach. Nero smiled behind his mask and gave a casual salute before sinking into a ready stance.

The buzzer sounded. Normally there was a good few seconds of sizing up and circling before the combatants engaged. A cheer went up as Nero opened fire, much to the surprise of pretty well everyone, Vincent included. Then again, Vincent had some affinity for shadows himself. It was a smart move, and enough to throw him for perhaps half a second.

Vincent returned fire, but the paint pellets splattered against the far wall. Nero had vanished, reappearing just behind Vincent. Only a fool tried to jump a Turk from behind. Vincent whipped around, weapon leveled at Nero’s head-- or where his head should have been. The boy had disappeared again.

Valentine seemed to be watching, listening, every sense stretching for a cue. He opened fire just as Nero appeared. Dropping to one knee, Nero held out both hands like a catcher fielding a baseball. A small hole opened, swallowing the shots and then snapped closed. Spinning, he tossed the shots back at Vincent through a second hole. Vincent dove to one side, a grim smile stretching his face.

Taking aim at his shadow, he fired, the shells disappearing into the floor. Nero jumped and twisted like an acrobat, narrowly dodging the pellets shooting out of his own shadow. Not waiting for Nero to recover, Vincent fired again. Nero flipped out of the way, but his landing was less graceful than his takeoff. Stumbling, he staggered to one side, a bright splotch of neon pink spattered across his thigh.

Veld leaned forward. Vincent hadn’t hit Nero directly. How the hell had he managed to connect? Nero, however, seemed to have figured it out. Rushing forward, he slid beneath Vincent’s counter-attack and fired into Vincent’s shadow. It was Vincent’s turn to dance out of the way of a scatter shot of paint pellets.

Cerberus was a custom piece, but still only held an average shot clip. Unless Veld missed his guess, both of them were out of ammo. As if to confirm this, Nero’s weapon vanished from his hand in a swirl of shadow. Vincent likewise holstered Cerberus and spread the talons of his claw.

The tension stretched as they stared each other down. Veld leaned against the barrier, fists clenched, hardly daring to breathe. One heartbeat. Two. Three… As if someone had fired a racing blank, they rushed toward each other and collided in an explosion of darkness.

Veld stood out of reflex, watching, heart in his throat, trying to track a battle that kept winking in and out of visibility. They tumbled from one shadow to another, long bodies writhing as they clawed at one another like a pair of angry cats. Valentine had his claw, but Nero had conjured a blade of his own from deep darkness. Blackness swirled like storm clouds in the arena, making it hard to watch as Vincent and Nero continued to swipe at each other.

It was truly breathtaking to witness. Both of them were lightning fast, long arms and legs moving almost too quickly to follow. Despite their gangliness, every movement was decisive and graceful. The light-hearted sensibility that had begun the match had vanished entirely, replaced by a desperate sort of determination. It was as if they had forgotten who they were fighting.

Veld squinted through the clouds of darkness as Vincent slashed at the boy with his claw. Nero dodged back, bringing up his knife of shadow. Vincent met it with a midnight blade of his own, and how he’d managed to conjure that, Veld could not begin to guess. To compensate, Nero’s own blade extended just in time to block a blow from Vincent. Although the swords were made of an absence of light, they still rang as if forged of steel. Vincent hacked, stabbed, thrust at Nero, who danced nimbly out of the way. Vincent made as if to swing at him, but instead brought up the hand with the claw, tearing off Nero’s mask.

At once the boy doubled over, a terrible rasping sound escaping his throat. The dry wheeze broke off abruptly in a wet gurgle as Vincent shoved his shadow sword forward.

Nero lurched, gasped, staggered where he stood. The darkness flooding the simulator faded as he looked down at the spike of shadow shoved through his middle. Slowly he lifted his head to meet Vincent’s eyes.

A collective gasp, deep and horrified, went up. Veld was over the barrier before the buzzer sounded and the lights came on. Nero had collapsed to his knees, only Vincent’s arms around him keeping him upright. Despite his injury, Nero sat calm and quiet, the only sign of distress a horrible rasp as he struggled to breathe. Vincent, on the other hand, had gone sheet white, his expression a complicated mix of disbelief and horror. Shaking himself, he scrabbled on the floor for Nero’s mask and clapped it over the boy’s face. Black blood oozed through the vents in his respirator as he coughed.

“What…” Nero gagged, vomiting more blood, “...did I do?”

Veld felt like puking himself. The kid thought this was punishment.

“Nothing,” Vincent whispered fiercely, trying to hug the boy without actually touching him. It wasn’t working very well. “Nothing, nothing! It was my fault. I got carried away this time. I’m sorry, Nero, oh gods I’m so sorry!”

Gently, Veld pulled Vincent away from Nero as the medical staff swarmed. The look of hurt, of innocent betrayal on Nero’s face made Veld’s heart twist. Knowing he would not be of any help to Nero, he hauled his partner to his feet by the collar and dragged him to his office.

\--

Mask had been silent for days. He hadn’t so much as grumbled or hissed, let alone sent the ugly, disturbing dreams of violence that he sometimes used to get Vincent’s attention. Since VIncent had threatened to put him on lockdown, he’d stayed behind his wall, brooding. 

Until today. It had happened between one breath and the next: Vincent had formed a shadow blade of his own, and Mask had reared up and seized control of his host. Vincent’s consciousness had been flung aside, and he could only watch, stunned and terrified, as Mask reached out and tore Nero’s mask from his face. 

Vincent’s silent screaming had little effect on Mask. If anything, it amused him; Mask laughed as he thrust his shadow blade into Nero’s body, and his mouth watered at the sight of Nero’s blood.

“ _All yours, Valentine!_ ” he crowed, sliding back, leaving Vincent once more in the driver’s seat. “ _Enjoy!_ ”

Vincent gasped, grabbing Nero as he slid to the floor. Veld had reached him at the same moment the medical team did, and Vincent could do nothing but babble apologies until Veld pulled him away. 

Now he sat in Veld’s office, shaking so hard the chair rattled under him. Veld had his PHS to his ear, listening intently to someone, presumably one of the medical team - or perhaps he was calling security to come and take Vincent away. At this point, Vincent would welcome the distraction. He kept seeing the blade going into Nero’s torso, blood bubbling from the wound, from Nero’s mouth, kept hearing that horrible rasp as Nero tried to breathe, _ohgodsohgods…_

A resounding slap nearly knocked his head off, bringing tears to his eyes and, thank the gods, some clarity to his thoughts. 

“Valentine, I’m only going to ask you once,” said Veld, his voice as grim as Vincent had ever heard it. “What. The hell. Happened?”

“M-Mask,” he said. “He-he took over, it wasn’t me, wasn’t me!” The tears spilled over as he looked up at Veld. “Veld, you know I would never hurt Nero!”

For a moment, Veld wore a stranger’s face, cold as death, the face of the Turk chief who’d faced down killers and won. What was left of Vincent’s heart shuddered in his chest. They were done. Veld thought he’d tried to kill his own son. Not even a lifelong assassin would stoop that low. 

Veld blinked, and pulled him into a hug. “I know,” he said, his voice muffled by Vincent’s shoulder.

Vincent shook in his arms, words tangling into nonsense every time he tried to speak. Veld held on, stroking his hair until Vincent had calmed a bit. 

“I thought I’d killed him,” Vincent said, still clinging to Veld. “We hardly know each other, but he’s my son, I’m sure of it. I already lost one son, I can’t lose Nero, too…”

“You won’t. Trust me.”

Veld let go, and Vincent grabbed his arm to hold him there. “Is he all right? Veld, please tell me he’s all right!”

“He’s alive,” said Veld. “The stab wound wasn’t the worst of it. They’re more worried about the respirator.”

“Is it damaged? Veld, we have to do something! We’ve got to--!”

“Calm down. They took him to the mako tanks. He can breathe dark mako while they check out the respirator, repair it if need be. He’s okay.”

Vincent nodded. “Okay. He’s okay. He’s… _ohh--ohhhhh_ , Bronze, I did a good job, didn’t I?” 

Mask pulled away, mouth twisting into a warped grin. “Baby Valentine is gonna be fine? Isn’t that divine!” 

He rose, reaching for Bronze with both hands. Oh, this would be so good, this would be delicious, first the son and then the lover...

Bronze swung, his fist connecting with Valentine’s jaw. Mask went down, one foot lashing out, catching Bronze’s ankle. Bronze tumbled to the floor, already rolling clear of Mask’s reach, but Mask knew that move as well. He caught the metal arm in his own, talons like a cage pinning it to the floor. He could use a knee, except he didn’t want to hurt that, because Bronze was his, yes he was!

“Gods dammit, Mask!” Bronze struggled under his weight, but Valentine had longer legs, so Mask straddled him, holding him down. 

“He can’t have you!” he hissed into Bronze’s furious face. “I saw you first! Mine mine mine!”

“He doesn’t want me, you idiot! I’m old enough to be his grandfather!” Bronze rolled his eyes. “For the love of all that’s holy, why am I arguing with a lunatic?” 

He bucked and twisted, throwing Mask off. Mask went down hard, his head striking something behind him with a metallic clang that made his ears ring and stars flash and _ohmygodswhat…_

“Why am I on the floor?” Vincent shook his head. The room rocked back and forth, his jaw ached, and Veld....Veld crouched across from him in a combat stance, once more wearing that deadly-serious expression that chilled Vincent to the bone.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened. 

Rage filled him, rivaling anything Mask could produce. If he could breathe fire, Mask would be a cinder. Vincent looked inward, and there was Mask, backing away as if he sensed he’d gone too far.

“ _You!_ ” Vincent grabbed Mask by the throat, talons cutting through the skin. Mask clawed at him, spitting curses. Vincent squeezed, cutting off breath and voice.

“You son of a bitch, you nearly killed my son!” He let go, and Mask fell at his feet, scrambling backwards. 

“He took Bronze!” Mask whined, one hand at his throat. “Took him into shadow! He was gone!”

“He didn’t hurt him,” said Vincent, advancing on his doppelganger. “He brought him back! And it’s none of your business, Veld is not yours, get that through your head!”

Mask snarled and leapt, knives in both fists, slashing. Vincent dodged and kicked him full in the face. The knives disappeared as Mask hit the ground. Vincent grabbed him by the hair, dragging him back toward the wall looming in the shadows of his mind.

It was his mind, and gods dammit, it was going to be ordered according to what he wanted, not Hellmasker or anyone else. He forged a heavy iron link with a thought, set it deep in the wall, and attached a chain thick enough to hold an ocean liner. The other end linked to a collar around Mask’s throat.

Mask shouted vulgarities at him, words that could curl paint off the wall. Vincent ignored him. He found Galian prowling around the edges of his mental landscape, and set him to guard Mask. Last, he woke Gigas, and bargained with him. Gigas agreed to patrol the wall in exchange for an occasional day out. 

“I can arrange that,” said Vincent. “There are always monsters somewhere that need killing.” He and Gigas shook hands on the deal, and then, belatedly remembering he wasn’t alone, Vincent turned his attention back to the outside world.

Surfacing, he found Veld sitting next to him, one arm around his shoulders. 

“You okay, spook?”

“Oh gods.” Vincent sagged against him. “Yeah. I am now. How long was I out of it?”

“Just a few minutes. Vince--” Veld looked him straight in the eyes. “I need to know. Is Mask under control now?”

“He really is this time. I was stupid, Veld. The last time, I threatened to lock him up, but I wasn’t sure I could actually do it. So I didn’t try. And I almost killed Nero because I lost control. It was my fault as much as Mask’s.”

Veld rubbed his shoulders gently. “Well, the kid’s pretty hard to kill. He’s gonna be okay.”

“Do you think he’ll forgive me?”

“Come on,” said Veld, as Vincent gave him a hand up. “Let’s go find out.”


	31. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nero is patched up and Vincent is also strong-armed into treatment.

As Veld and Vincent pushed through the double doors of the medical wing, Veld spotted trouble ahead. 

“Vince? Incoming.”

Down the hall, Max stopped pacing and homed in on Vincent. “ _You!_ It’s about time you got here!”

Vincent winced, approaching with caution. “I’m sorry. I...had to talk to to someone first.”

“I hope it was an anger management counselor, you jerk!”

“Max,” said Veld, drawing on the last of his patience, “what are you doing out here?”

“They won’t let me in. I’m not _family_.” Crossing her arms, she shot Vincent another dirty look. “He wants to see you. He’s asking what he did wrong. I don’t know if you hit him too hard or what, but he’s got it all backward. He blames himself.”

“Oh, gods. Veld--”

“Steady, Vince.” Veld put a hand on Vincent’s arm. “That’s normal for Nero. We’ll talk to him.”

“Veld, I want to see him!” Max slipped in front of Veld as he reached for the door between them and Nero. “Please? He’s gotta be scared, it’s all strangers in there and people messing with his respirator.”

“Let me check with the doctors first,” said Veld, gently moving her out of his way. “You stay right here. We’ll call you when they say it’s okay.”

“You’d better.” Turning to Vincent, she tilted her head back to look up into his face. “I know you didn’t mean it, Valentine. Just...don’t do it again.”

“I won’t. That’s a promise.” 

“I’ll hold you to that!” she said as he followed Veld into Nero’s room.

\--

A doctor was sitting with Nero, both of them perched on the edge of the bed. Vincent recognized the red hair and prosthetic hand: Shalua. She looked up only briefly at his entry, an unmistakable frown creasing her features.

“Reeve informs me you’re banned from the training arena,” she said stiffly. “Both of you.”

Standing, she stepped back to allow Vincent further into the room. Nero sat with an oxygen mask pressed over his nose and mouth with both hands, a fine purple mist coating the inside of the transparent plastic. Only a simple square of duct tape just below his ribs marked where the shadow blade had slit his suit.

“Nero…” Vincent began, but found himself out of words. Turning to Shalua, he asked: “Is he alright?”

“Fine,” Nero rasped wetly from behind the mask. The fit of coughing that followed rather ruined his insistence.

“Slowly,” Shalua told him, lifting a hand as if to touch his arm, but never actually connecting. “Make it last.”

Nero nodded, visibly forcing himself to take slow, deep breaths. Wait. Nero was breathing without his respirator. Clearly there was dark mako mixed with the oxygen but where…?

“He’ll be alright,” Shalua said more gently. “We had to get creative while his respirator’s being repaired. Fortunately, we were able to borrow some dark mako from the laboratories.”

Vincent nodded dumbly, not knowing what to say or do. He would have liked to hug Nero, but knew that wouldn’t help. He wished Veld were here, but he was out in the hall, restraining Max.

“I’ll let you talk.” Turning, Shalua glided from the room, offering a parting remark before she left: “Don’t upset him.”

It was a little late for that. Nero looked up with him the same hopeful, apologetic look as a puppy. If Nero had known sunlight all his life, if he had known the love of family, Vincent could have folded him in his arms and said in gesture what he could not say in words. But Nero would not understand, and he’d have to try to explain, to translate, as best he could.

“What,” Nero rasped, the word taking far too much effort, “did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything,” Vincent said miserably, sitting down beside him. “That was my fault. Please know that I would never intentionally hurt you. I know that probably sounds rich right now…”

“No,” he wheezed. “It’s okay. Weiss broke my arm twice and my leg once by accident when we were kids.”

Vincent winced, but even anger and sorrow couldn’t drown the shame and regret weighing him down.

“It… it wasn’t an accident,” Vincent began. “It… I…” Dammit, why were words so hard? Taking a deep breath, Vincent tried to think how he could possibly explain. Nero was strangely naive despite having grown up in Deepground. He spoke of atrocities the way others might comment on the weather. Ordinarily, Vincent had to couch his story in euphemisms, talk around the grisly details. Nero, however, wouldn’t need to be spared the ugliness of it all. Veld’s words echoed in his mind:

_Maybe he has something you need._

“When I was younger, something...happened to me,” Vincent began. “I was shot. Point-blank. I should have died, but I didn’t. I don’t remember a lot of what happened after that. When I woke up…” Gods, he’d never spoken of this to anyone, not even Veld. “When I woke up, I wasn’t in a hospital, or even in a rehab ward. I was in a lab. For years. I don’t know how many. It felt like a lifetime. I was cut open and stitched back together more times than I can count. All I really remember is the pain, the pain and the _anger_... That anger...it took on a mind of its own; became its own person. I became that guy to survive, because there would come a day when they cut me up and they _wouldn’t_ put me back together and I wasn’t going to let that happen.”

Nero nodded, as if this was a perfectly sensible thing to do. Maybe it was. Vincent had no idea.

“We had a lot of guys like that,” Nero gasped, a brief fit of coughing accompanying the statement. “It happens.”

“I’m not going to let it happen again,” Vincent promised him. “That guy...I call him ‘Mask’, he’s a nasty son of a bitch. He kept me alive then, but I’d be lying if I said I was glad he’s still in the back of my mind. He’s going to stay there, believe me. He’s the one who hurt you. I don’t ever want to hurt you.”

Nero nodded. “So...it was an accident.”

“Sort of,” Vincent agreed, caught between grateful and heartbroken that Nero was taking this so well. Fathers didn’t go around arbitrarily stabbing their children; not even absentee fathers who hadn’t even known they were fathers until a week ago.

“It’s okay.” The lift of his cheekbones hinted at the smile behind the mask. Despite himself, Vincent smiled back. He still felt horrible but...lighter, somehow.

“Think you could handle some more company?”

Nero nodded and Vincent turned to the open door. Veld appeared in the entryway, Max pushing past him to rush toward Nero. Vincent made a grab for her, but momentum carried her past his reach and into Nero’s arms.

“Oh my gods!” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. “Are you okay? What the hell were you two playing at?”

Nero, one hand holding the oxygen mask to his face, the other awkwardly holding Max, glanced from his father to the woman in his arms and back again. The look on his face might have been comical if he hadn’t been stabbed less than an hour ago.

“I’m okay,” he stammered. Veld stepped in to rescue him about then, gently drawing Max out of Nero’s personal bubble.

“Glad you’re alright, kid.”

Veld pulled Max aside. “What did I tell you about the grabbing, Max?”

“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry, but...what about Vincent putting holes in Nero? You gonna address that?”

“He already did,” Vincent said. “Thoroughly.”

“Then are you guys done playing ‘mine is bigger than yours,’ or is this gonna be a weekly thing? I’ll have to clear my schedule so I can keep an eye on Nero.”

Vincent opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He met Nero’s glance, and for once they both looked equally chagrined. Veld had backed away, as smooth and silent as only a Turk could be, letting Nero and Vincent take the heat. 

Nero looked from Vincent to Max and back again a second time, completely at a loss. If he’d been following her at all before, she’d lost him.

“It was an accident?” he wheezed. “It won’t happen again. We got kicked out of the simulator.”

“Good! Ugh, men.” She raised her voice. “Shalua knows exactly what I’m talking about!”

A snicker sounded from around the corner. Max turned back to Nero. 

“I’m really glad you’re all right. Are they going to be able to fix the respirator?”

“I hope so. Dr. Shalua said I’ve got about three hours worth of dark mako. She told me it was your idea to use the sample we took the other day. Thanks for donating it.”

“No prob, buddy, I’m just glad we had it. I’m gonna wait right here with you until it’s fixed.”

“Wait a second,” said Vincent. “When, exactly, did you go someplace where there’s dark mako?”

Max shrugged. “Couple days ago. He showed me the cave because I said we could use the stuff to make something to treat his hands. Means we need more now, though.”

“If we’re going to run short, I could go to the cave and get more,” said Vincent. “I’ve been there. I’ll need something to carry it back in. Maybe Shalua can help with that.”

“Dr. Shalua said I should stay here, otherwise I would have gone myself,” Nero explained. “It’d be tricky with this thing, though.” He tapped the oxygen tank with one hand. “You don’t have to. I’ll be okay for a while yet.”

“Nero,” Vincent said patiently, “keeping you breathing is a priority. It’s the very least I can do.”

“Can you find it on your own, or should I open a tunnel?”

“I can do it,” Vincent assured him. He _would_ do this, dammit. “Just give me a bucket. It’ll be good practice. You stay here and rest.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll come with you. That way we can bring back twice as much.” Max gave him that look, the one that said he would cross her at his own peril. 

Sometimes he did the smart thing. Like now. He gave in.

“All right, let’s grab a couple of clean buckets and get going.”

Buckets were easy enough to find: They raided the janitor’s closet. Armed with two large plastic pails, Vincent looked for a shadow dark enough to work with. Finally he simply returned to the closet. 

“It worked before,” he told Max, who just shook her head.

He focused on the shadows, fixing the idea of a tunnel firmly in mind. The darkness opened, and he stepped into it, Max following closely behind him.

“So...you and Nero, huh?” Vincent asked as the blackness closed around them. Max appeared to be following at his elbow of her own accord, so he didn’t bother to remind her to stay close. Nero was the foremost thing on his mind right now, and it was easy to picture the mako cavern; the drawings and scribblings on the wall.

“He’s a nice guy,” Max said, all cool nonchalance. “Veld thought he needed a friend, and I volunteered to be his ambassador to the outside world.”

“I heard you two went swimming.”

The blackness opened, dim purple light seeming bright as day by comparison. Without another word, they filled their buckets and headed back through the tunnel of nothing to Nero’s hospital room.

“I didn’t know you could do this too,” Max observed. “It a dark mako thing?”

“Something like that.”

To her credit, Max did not push, and walked the rest of the way in silence.

Vincent brought them both back to the closet without mishap, and hurried back to Nero’s room with the mako. 

“Shalua? We’ve got about four gallons here, I hope that’s enough to hold him until the respirator is fixed.”

“That should do it,” said Shalua. “They should be done before he runs out. Now that they’ve seen how his particular model works, they should be able to duplicate it, so he can have a couple of spares on hand.”

“Can you let me know if any of the mako is left?” said Max. “I still want the labs to work up that skin treatment for him.”

“Will do,” said Shalua. “Now let’s clear the room, hmm? Nero needs to rest. No excitement while he’s breathing through that cobbled-together mask.”

“I’ll just stay here in the corner.” Max sat on the single visitor’s chair, arms and legs crossed, daring anybody to try to remove her. “I won’t be in the way.”

“And you?” Shalua eyed Vincent. 

“Um.” He backed up against the wall. “How’s this?”

Shalua’s single eye narrowed in a way that made Vincent think of Veld in full-on Chief mode. “I want to talk to you.”

He swallowed nervously. “Can it wait?”

“No.”

“Okay then. I’ll um...I’ll be right back.”

Reluctantly, Vincent followed Shalua out into the hall, mentally bracing himself for a well-deserved chew-out. For a moment she simply stared at him, not scowling necessarily, but certainly unhappy. He watched, bemused, as her expression softened slightly into something more sad than angry.

“Vincent, you don’t have to tell me what happened in the training simulator.”

He blinked, having not expected that.

“However, I want you to talk to somebody about it. Not Veld, not Reeve, not Tseng, but someone who knows how to help you.”

“I...what?” Vincent stammered, expecting that even less.

“I think you should talk to a therapist,” Shalua repeated in more specific terms. “Trying to manage on your own clearly isn’t working.”

“I’m fine. Mask won’t attack again.”

“Vincent. You _stabbed your son_.”

“I thought you said there was no way to know for sure if he was my son?” Vincent grumbled, hiding behind petulance.

“I saw him without his respirator,” Shalua replied calmly. “Inconclusive tests aside, I’m sure I don’t know who else he could belong to. He’s the spitting image of you.”

Vincent had nothing to say to that.

“I can’t in good conscience release Nero without knowing you are going to actively take steps to prevent this from happening again,” Shalua said, her tone almost pleading.

“It won’t,” Vincent swore.

“Can you promise me?”

“Yes,” he said with a nod. “I promise.”

Shalua just looked at him and shook her head. “What I want you to promise me is that you will get help. Talk to an impartial third party. You’ve been wrestling with your demons for years. It isn’t fair or right to try to do it all on your own. There’s no shame in asking for help.”

Vincent studied the floor as he thought about it. In his day, only the crazies had needed medical treatment. However, his day was more than thirty years gone. Turks had always helped one another through hard times, and while Veld had certainly done so, perhaps it wasn’t fair to expect him to deal with Vincent’s drama single-handed. Vincent could see the sense in having Nero speak to a counselor. If nothing else, it would be another person he could learn to trust and ask about the outside world. He thought about Gigas, Galian, and Mask, all ghosting through the recesses of his mind. He shuddered at the distant rattle of chains and the incoherent babble of curses and taunts.

Yeah, no. They were so not doing that again.

“Okay,” Vincent agreed with a reluctant nod. He didn’t have to like it, he just had to do it. Nero deserved that much. “I promise. I’ll see someone.”

Shalua visibly relaxed, a small smile blossoming across her face. “Thank you. I can give you some names of a few counselors I think you’d get along well with if you want.”

Vincent nodded. “Please.”


	32. Empty Nest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vincent cannot prove he is a Parent, so instead tries to offer services as a Life Consultant.  
> It goes about as well as expected.

“Well?” Vincent asked hopefully. Shalua returned his smile, but hers was a good deal more restrained.

“I told you the results had come in, I didn’t say I had an answer,” she said, sliding the print-out toward him. To Vincent, the little page of colored dots strongly resembled a standardized testing sheet that had been filled out in magic marker. The overwhelming majority of the dots were colored in a vibrant neon green.

“So?” he asked. “Is Nero my son?”

Shalua sighed. “Vincent, I warned you when I ran the tests that I wasn’t likely to find anything. The results were inconclusive. You can see that the Jenova in his system overrides just about everything except the most obvious markers. He’s male, he has fair skin and dark hair. That’s about it. The rest is just Jenova, Jenova, Jenova.”

Vincent eyed the piece of paper. The image in his head had changed, and now he felt as if he was looking at one of the Wall Market scratch off lottery cards. The green Jenova dots were no more than foil to be scratched away, and then he’d have the confirmation he needed.

“So the Jenova is interfering with the test?”

Shalua nodded. “Yes. The SOLDIER’s joke about Type J blood is actually legitimate.”

“What if we could remove the Jenova?” Vincent asked. “Isn’t Nero a risk as well as at risk as long as it’s in his bloodstream?”

“Yes, but it seems to be largely dormant,” Shalua confirmed. “So far the theory is that without the broader consciousness of the parasite and Sephiroth, the remaining cells are just that: cells.”

“So Nero isn’t likely to go off the deep end.” _Like Sephiroth…_

Shalua shook her head. “If he does, it probably won’t be because of the Jenova in his system.”

“Would it be possible to remove it?” Vincent pressed. “What about Aeris’ spring of healing water?” It had cured Denzel and all the other affected children. Surely it could cleanse Nero.

“It would work well enough on someone who had secondary exposure like the SOLDIER corps,” Shalua reasoned aloud, “but Nero tells me he and his siblings were conceived with Jenova. It wouldn’t cure him, it would be more likely to kill him.”

Yikes. “Okay, so no.”

“No,” Shalua agreed. “So long as he’s careful, it shouldn’t be an issue.”

“There’s not any other tests you can run?”

“I’m sorry, no,” Shalua told him regretfully. “The Jenova would throw the results no matter what. The best answer I can give you is ‘maybe’.”

‘Maybe’ wasn’t ‘no’. If Nero hadn’t had to wear the respirator, people would probably be getting whiplash doing double-takes at the pair of them. Even with the dark mako affecting his skin and eye color, Nero looked enough like him to be his twin-- or son.

In his heart, the decision had been made weeks ago, practically upon discovering Nero. With his family still missing, possibly even dead, the poor kid was alone in the world. The Turks would provide him with a lot of guidance and support, but he ought to have someone standing behind him. Perhaps if Vincent had been there to provide that support for Sephiroth, things might have turned out differently. That was not, Vincent decided, going to happen to Nero.

“Vincent?”

Vincent looked up, Shalua’s voice startling him out of his thoughts.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked if you were disappointed.”

Vincent smiled and shook his head. “No. Not at all.”

\--

Although he’d moved out, Veld and Vincent were still his sponsors, so Nero reported in regularly. If nothing else, Veld’s cooking kept him coming back. On these occasions, Vincent shared after-dinner clean-up duty with Nero. Nero could be trusted not to use steel wool on the Teflon, or to soak the terra cotta baking pan in soapy water. Since he didn’t know the kitchen quite so well, he washed while Vincent dried and put the various implements away. Normally they did this in silence. Nero had grown up with the mandate of being seen and not heard, and Vincent rarely had anything to say. 

Of late, the silence had been somewhat strained, as Vincent tried to walk the narrow path between too much involvement in Nero’s life, and not enough. After the debacle of the planning meeting, he’d promised Veld that he’d back off. Then Mask had nearly killed Nero, and Vincent wanted to grab hold of his son and never let go. The middle ground was murky, and full of landmines.

Tonight, watching Nero work beside him, Vincent tested a few questions in his mind. They seemed innocuous to him.

“So,” he said, trying for a casual tone, “how’s your training coming along?”

“Okay,” Nero said, not looking up from the dishwater. “Better than classes. I already know pretty much everything they’ve taught us so far.”

“I guess this must seem like a step down for you, after commanding your own unit in Deepground.”

“Little bit,” Nero said flatly.

Wrong approach. Vincent tried again. “Do you have everything you need at the Turk barracks?”

Nero thought about that. He knew the right answer, even if the real answer was vastly different. Sleeping in the barracks wasn’t the same as piling together with his siblings, but it was significantly better than being in a room by himself. Outside of that, he didn’t need much.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, good.” More awkward silence. Vincent still had one card left. 

“How are things going with Max?”

Nero didn’t freeze, exactly, didn’t even break stride as he handed Vincent a dish. Yet Vincent could almost feel the walls going up, the portcullis crashing down, the windows slammed shut.

“Fine.”

“Okay. That’s good. Glad you’re...making friends.” Vincent dried the dish and set it on the counter. “She likes you.”

“If you say so, sir.” Nero glanced at him warily. He knew in his head neither Veld nor Vincent were likely to come after Max in any way, but it was hard to beat back the sudden stab of fear. Besides, he still wasn’t sure what they were expecting out of Max and himself.

“She’s...she’s really nice,” he managed, proud he’d kept his voice even.

“She said the same about you,” said Vincent, remembering his trip with Max to the cave to fetch mako for Nero. “Did you know she wants to be a Turk herself?”

“Seriously?” Nero was incredulous. “But she’s so smart! I mean…” He hadn’t intended to imply that Turks were not intelligent, but it was no secret that for all their cunning, they were mostly hired muscle. Nero floundered for something to say that would correct his faux pas, but though his jaw worked, no sound came out.

Vincent blinked. Had his son just suggested...? Never mind. “Well, I think it has something to do with Veld, to be honest. He’s been friends with her family for years.”

Nero nodded, glad Vincent hadn’t taken offense. “Okay. I just thought...she’s been studying for this degree, I figured she’d stick to science. I have no idea what she’s talking about half the time, but she makes it look so easy. Why go to all that trouble if you’re just gonna shoot things?”

Now it _was_ getting personal. “Education can make you a better Turk, you know. I went to college when I was her age. I earned a degree, too.”

Nero hunched into his collar and scrubbed more viciously at a pot. “Yes, sir. No excuse, sir.”

“Speaking of shooting things, how’s your firearms training?”

This time, Nero visibly winced. To say that his stats at the range were not competitive would be putting it politely. One pistol shadowed into a toilet, another into the water cooler, and when he’d finally managed to keep hold of one, he hadn’t even hit the paper.

“I suck,” was all he said.

Okay, wait. A Valentine that sucked at shooting? “It can’t be that bad,” said Vincent. 

“I’ve always sucked.” The words were quiet, ashamed, angry. “I was supposed to use guns with the rig, but I could never get it to work right. I’ve never done it by hand before.”

“You just need more practice,” said Vincent, sure of that much. “Put in some extra time at the range. You’ll get the hang of it.”

“I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a cannon,” Nero growled. “I could practice all year and it wouldn’t make any difference. I’m just not any good at it.”

“Well, a negative attitude won’t help. I could give you some pointers. Or Veld could. He’s a damn good shot himself.”

There was brittle _CRACK_ from beneath the dishwater. This time Nero did freeze for a second. Slowly, he lifted his hands out of the water, one half of a china dish held in each. Static made his muttered curse unintelligible as he turned to Vincent with wide and horrified eyes.

“I… I’m sorry....” he stammered. “I didn’t mean… I just…”

Vincent took the china pieces from him. “It’s no big deal. Did you hurt yourself?”

“Nosir.” Nero didn’t look as if he believed him, but let Vincent take the broken china out of his hands.

“I break things all the time.” Vincent tossed the pieces into the trash can. “Just ask Veld. That’s why he only buys the cheap stuff.” 

He turned back to Nero. “You need to relax. That’s why you’re having trouble on the range. Stay calm, and focus.”

“Yes, Sir.” The words had never sounded so much like a threat. “If that will be all?”

There were no more dirty dishes or utensils left. Nero stood stiffly in front of the sink, empty hands balled into fists at his sides. On the surface, he barely looked even mildly uncomfortable. His tone, however...

Somehow, the whole conversation had gone, like the dish, straight into the trash. Vincent couldn’t think of a single thing to say that wouldn’t make matters worse.

“Yeah, sure. That’s all.”

Without further comment, Nero stepped back and vanished into shadow. The angry glare of a pair of golden eyes lingered before it too disappeared into the darkness.

Cursing to himself, Vincent left the kitchen, slapping the light off behind him.

\--

Later, long after Nero had left, Veld went in search of Vincent, finally tracking him down in the back yard. Vincent slouched against the wall, arms crossed, head tilted up to see the night sky.

Veld sat beside him, taking care not to cross Vincent’s personal-space boundary just yet. Silence settled around them. The neighboring houses were mostly dark, and late night traffic was rare. Sometimes Veld missed the steady buzz and clank of city noise that he’d grown used to in Midgar, but not often. 

No one valued peace and quiet like those who’d lived through world-shaking crises.

On the other hand, some people lived for drama. He glanced up at Vincent, noting subtle signs of tension in the deceptively-casual stance: The stiff line of his mouth, his jaw set tight, arms tucked close to his chest. In the darkness, his pupils were wide and black, with a liquid sheen much like dark mako. 

They could sit out here all night, or Veld could take steps to resolve whatever it was.

“So what’s wrong, Vince?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s definitely something. I can hear you angsting over there.”

Vincent sank down the wall to sit with his knees drawn up. “Nero. What else?”

“What about him?”

“I tried to talk to him, about his training, and Max, and it...didn’t go well.” 

Vincent shook his head, shoulders hunched. “I realize things have been awkward between us. But I didn’t expect him to be so...hostile.”

 

Veld had seen this coming, but he’d given up any attempt to stop it. You just didn’t step out in front of an onrushing train. That didn’t mean he couldn’t try to salvage something from the inevitable wreck.

“Your questions may have been a little intrusive, Vince. Remember what Shelke said about the Restrictors setting him up to fail?”

“This didn’t scare him, Veld.” Vincent leaned his head against his knees. “He was angry. And all I did was ask how things were going, and offer some advice on the one thing I actually know something about. He’s my son. I know I promised not to push, but can’t a father and son talk to each other?”

“And you’re certain,” Veld said, gently, “that he’s your son? Despite Shalua telling you she couldn’t be sure?” 

“She didn’t say he isn’t. That’s good enough for me.”

Veld slid over close enough to rest his arm around Vincent’s shoulders. “Everything’s all or nothing with you, isn’t it?”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning you’re committed to this, even though it hurts. A lot of people would have washed their hands of him at this point.”

Vincent raised his head to look at Veld. “We’re all the family he’s got right now.”

“I’m not necessarily disagreeing. As it happens, I like having him here.”

“Because you can keep a close eye on an unknown quantity?”

“That, too,” Veld admitted without shame. A lifetime of vigilance--not to say paranoia--had kept him breathing; and Nero’s power, and potential for trouble, were too strong to ignore. 

With that thought in mind, he said, “He’s also a lot like you, and I like having you here.”

It didn’t get him the smile he was hoping for, but Vincent did relax a little, leaning against him. 

“I’m a foolish old man, Veld. I’ll never mean as much to him as his siblings do. Whether we find them alive or dead, I’ll always just be the guy who contributed Nero’s Y chromosome. I want to be more than that, but I don’t know how.”

“Vince, you need to give it time.” Veld tightened his arm around Vincent, pulling him closer still. “You hardly know each other. Even when you’re there at the beginning, it doesn’t always go the way you want it to. Trust me on that one, okay?”

“Voice of experience,” Vincent said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re doing the best you can. You and Nero have to build your relationship from the ground up, yes, but as long as you’re both willing, there’s no reason to think you’re gonna fail.”

“I’m not sure he is willing. I’m just...adjusting my hopes so I don’t keep tripping over them when they fall apart.”

“Are you so sure they’re going to fall apart?”

“They already have. Just like with--”

“Valentine, what did I tell you about that?”

 

“Nero is not Sephiroth,” Vincent stated, like a child reciting a lesson. “That doesn’t make it any easier. He’s made his position plain. Never mind the DNA: I’m a stranger, and I’m not to be trusted.”

“He’ll come around,” said Veld. “One step at a time, Vince. Let’s find his siblings first. He’ll settle down.”

“What if he doesn’t? Or if they’re dead? What then?”

“Then we’ll deal with it.” Veld rose, reaching to give Vincent a hand up. “I do know we aren’t going to solve every issue he’s got in one night. Let’s go to bed. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“Why? What happens tomorrow?”

“That’s up to you, spook.”

“No, it isn’t,” Vincent sighed. “It’s up to Commander Sable, General, Third Division.”


	33. Family Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nero vents to the girls and Vincent dusts off some family relics.

“I don’t know what he thinks he wants from me,” Nero grumbled. It had been an oft repeated phrase that evening, and no amount of tea or banana pudding seemed to be able to soften his mood. Shelke rubbed her shoulder against his forearm consolingly.

“He likes you,” she insisted. “Vincent’s just trying to get to know you. The problem is, he’s not any better at people than you are. He just hides it better.”

“Thanks,” Nero rolled his eyes.

Shelke elbowed him playfully. “You know what I mean.”

Nero sighed. “I really do suck at shooting, though. He really took that personally.”

“Well, can you blame him?” Max plopped another spoonful of banana pudding into Nero’s bowl. “It’s his thing. There’s never been a better shot in the Turks. He must have figured you’d inherit his talent for it.”

She added a huge dollop of whipped cream to the pudding. “Veld taught me how to shoot, and Vincent gave me some advanced training. He really could help you with that. It’s something you could do together. Would that be a bad thing?”

Nero shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t think it’s going to endear me to him much. I may have accidentally warped two pistols into small bodies of water my first week of training. One into a toilet, the other inside a water cooler tank. I’m not used to holding them with my bare hands. I always had the rig before- not that it was much better.”

Shelke bit her lip and tried to sip some tea in order to drown the giggle struggling to escape. It was funny, but Nero wouldn’t see it that way.

“Well,” she began once she’d recovered enough to keep a straight face, “is it the pressure of potentially losing the guns, or hitting the mark that’s stressing you out?”

“Both?” Nero sighed. “I get that I have to at least pass the basic qualifier, but I’m starting to think even that’s impossible.” With a groan, he flopped backwards, head hanging over the back of the sofa. “I am _never_ going to get this surface thing down.”

Max exchanged a look with Shelke, glad to have the other girl for backup. She’d made the transition back to surface life, not without some difficulty, but successfully. There was hope for Nero. 

She patted his shoulder. “Nero, you don’t have to ‘get it’ all at once. There’s no test. You’re not going to be written up for not being perfect. It’s not like in Deepground. Nobody’s going to hang you by your thumbs if you mess up.”

Sitting down next to him, she nudged him with her shoulder. It wasn’t exactly the Deepground version of a hug, but she knew it was familiar, and comforting. “Look, when I started with a gun, I was terrible. I never got near the target at first. My hands shook, and the recoil scared me. It took weeks for me to feel comfortable with it. 

“Veld is really patient. And once I got good at it, Vincent gave me some pointers. He was very calm, just as patient as Veld. I learned a lot from both of them. I guess what I’m saying is, it’s a lot of work, and practice, and the right instructor makes a big difference. But you’ll get it. You’re smart, and talented. You’ll be okay.”

Having never heard such words in conjunction with his name before, Nero just looked at her funny.

“It’s called encouragement,” Shelke supplied. “Max and I believe you have potential to master guns. It’s going to take some work, but we think you can do it.”

“Uh, okay,” Nero said, bewildered, and focused on his dessert for a minute.

“Maybe if you practiced with something low stakes,” Shelke suggested. “Like a slingshot, or the paint ball guns for the simulator. You know, you didn’t seem to have any trouble with those.”

Nero thought about that for a minute. “Well, they’re just toys.”

“So they’re not as valuable and therefore you’re not as worried about losing them?”

He shrugged. “I guess?”

Max turned to Shelke. “I wonder if they’d let us use the simulator? We could have a game, just you, me and Nero! It’s practice, sort of. Right?”

“I’m only allowed in by myself,” Nero reminded her. “After two stabbings, I’m lucky to still have access at all.”

“Well, might be less pressure than the actual shooting range,” Shelke mused. “Worth a shot.”

“Har har,” Nero said, and tossed one of the couch cushions at her. Shelke caught it, laughing.

“You won’t be using shadows,” said Max, waving a hand. “It’ll be fine. I’ll talk to Tseng. Or Reeve. Or both of ‘em. Or I could ask Veld to ask them. It’s really hard for him to say ‘no’ to me,” she finished with a smug grin. 

A flicker of pure terror flashed across Nero’s face. “No, that’s okay. Please don’t. I’ll...I’ll ask Tseng. He’ll probably be okay with it.”

Learning to shoot straight might bring him slightly more esteem in Vincent’s eyes, but he got the feeling neither of them were entirely over the Ned incident. Maybe he’d been too rude. However, all three of them under the same roof hadn’t been working. Max didn’t live with her parents anymore. Weren’t people their age supposed to be moving out of their family homes and into living quarters of their own? 

“Was it just the shooting?” asked Max. “Or were you guys fighting about other stuff too? It doesn’t sound like Vincent. I know he has a temper, ‘cause I’ve seen him spark off with Veld now and then, but he doesn’t get angry very often.”

Nero shook his head. “He keeps… I don’t know. It’s weird. He was asking me all this stuff. He even asked about you.” There was a haunted look in his eyes as Nero looked up at her. “I know… I know in my head they wouldn’t hurt you or me for...for…” He had no word for it and so trailed off. “I don’t talk about my friends because I want to keep them safe. It’s hard to get around that.”

“Giving you the third degree?” Max smiled. “That’s what parents do. How’s school, how’re your friends, where are you going, don’t be home late….All that stuff is normal. Vin’s just being a nosy dad. Like Shelke said, he’s trying to get to know you.

“As for Veld…” Max paused, and when she went on, her tone had grown serious. “Veld is the same way you are. Protective of his friends. When my mom left Shinra, he kept his mouth shut and looked the other way, because he cared about her. Turks are dangerous people, but there’s no one better to have on your side. And you have two of them on your side.”

She squeezed his hand. “Don’t let Vincent or Veld scare you. I’ve known ‘em both for years. They won’t hurt you.”

“I know that,” Nero said, hesitating a moment before squeezing back. “My head knows it. It’s just hard to get the rest of me to agree.”

—

Veld arrived home to find Vincent rearranging the living room. 

He’d pushed the sofa closer to the center of the room and moved a lamp from one corner to another. In the space vacated by the lamp, he’d set up a small table, and on it now stood a square cabinet made of dark wood.

Vincent himself knelt on the floor in front of the table, his back to the door while he set various objects on shelves inside of the cabinet.

“Vince?” Veld tossed his jacket on to the sofa, coming up behind Vincent. “What’re you doing?”

Vincent looked over his shoulder at Veld. “I’m setting up a shrine.”

“A what now?”

“An ancestor shrine. It’s kind of traditional, but I’ve never had one of my own, I hope I’m doing this right, it’s been decades since I saw one of these, and...um.” 

He shook his head and rose, turning to face Veld. “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked you first.”

“I don’t care. Mind telling me what brought this on, though?”

Vincent sat down on the arm of the sofa. “Well. Nero, I guess.”

Veld blinked. “What’s a potentially long-lost son got to do with a shrine?”

“It’s...kinda hard to explain.”

“Take your time,” said Veld, rubbing Vincent’s arm gently. When it came to explanations, Valentine couldn’t be hurried. He had to search for the right words; fortunately, Veld was a patient man.

“When I was a kid,” said Vincent, picking his way through whatever was going on in his head, “we had one at home. My mother cared for it, and she taught me about it--how the ancestors are part of your daily life, to be acknowledged and respected.”

He leaned over to an open box on the floor, and pulled out a small ceremonial tea cup made of pale blue glazed porcelain.

“This is for ritual offerings of tea,” he said, setting the cup on the table. Next he pulled out a matching bowl. “This is for rice.” 

“There are rituals for the dead, on the anniversary of their death and at other times of the year. I should have family pictures here, too, but I...haven’t got any.”

“Okay.” Veld waited, watching thoughts flicker in the red depths of Vincent’s eyes.

“My mother used to pray and meditate at the family shrine,” Vincent said very quietly. “She said we should look to the past for guidance, and to the future for opportunity. She prayed to our ancestors for blessings: Prosperity, wisdom...good health.”

He gave a wry smile. “I guess that last one didn’t work so well. Anyway...She always said our family was like a chain, stretching back into the past and forward into the future. Braced by ancestors on one side, and children on the other.

“I always thought I’d broken the chain, since I never planned on having kids of my own. I thought, in my line of work I’d probably die young, and I didn’t want to leave my kids without their father. And then...without knowing it...I had a son. Well, two actually. And I wasn’t there for either of them.”

“Vince, you know that’s not your fault.”

“I know.” Vincent shrugged. “But does that matter to Nero? I wasn’t there. If I’d known, I’d have gotten him out of there sooner, but that didn’t happen. And he’s not open to my being his father. I’ll never be the guy he looks up to, comes to for advice, or tells about his hopes and dreams. I’m just a stranger who shares his DNA.”

“Hey.” Veld slipped an arm around Vincent’s shoulders. “You’re more than that. You’re part of his history, and so is this.” He nodded at the shrine. “He might not understand right now, but you’re family. That has value. It will take time for both of you to figure out your place in each other’s life, that’s all.”

Vincent leaned his head against Veld’s. “By myself I don’t have much to offer a son, but I can at least give him his ancestors. They’re there, whether he knows them or not. And they’re there for me, too, if I need them.”

Veld tightened his arm around Vincent, and he was _not_ getting teary-eyed, nope, not at all. “Let me know if I can help, okay?”

“Sure. After all, you’re Nero’s step-dad, y’know.”

Veld snorted. “That’s a conversation for another time, Valentine. I’m gonna go start dinner.”


	34. Compromise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which details of various and sundry varieties are hashed out.

“There’s more than one way into Deepground,” Nero began, bringing up his shadow model of the subterranean city once again. After the first rather fraught meeting, Reeve had come to the obvious conclusion that they needed more information. That meant another meeting with Veld, Vincent, and Nero in the same room.

“There’s at least two access points per sector. I’m pretty sure the ones nearest Reactor Zero- what used to be your Shinra building- are gone. However, there’s a couple of potential spots farther out.” Little dots of vibrant purple sparked to life near the edges of the city wall in each sector.

“Now these entrances are blocked, locked, and possibly no good. I don’t actually know because they’re right at the edge of the microchip’s range. However, they’re a hell of a lot better than trying to access the lower levels through the middle.”

Vincent, seated across the table from Nero, studied the map for a moment. “What about the elevator you created in the WRO lobby? Is that still a viable option?”

“Yeah, I could move that,” Nero agreed. “If we can find a better outlet for it, I can shut that one down and open another one somewhere else if you don’t want it in the lobby. I don’t know if I could hold two open at once.”

“One is enough,” said Vincent. “We could use it for anyone who’s injured to get them out more quickly. Thank you, Commander Sable.”

He sat back, making notes on a yellow legal pad. He’d never quite gotten the hang of using his phone for things like this.

Nero blinked at the title, but said nothing. “Anyway, the trick will be identifying who’s where. All the Mothers and Kids are probably in one spot, but I don’t know about any surviving troops or support staff. They could be anywhere.”

“Wait,” Shelke said softly. “The microchips! Oh my gods I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner!”

“Wait, what?” Reeve held up one hand. “What are you talking about?”

“Every citizen of Deepground is implanted with a microchip,” Shelke explained, pointing to the nape of her neck. “It’s a way to track your location, as well as to keep you in line. You can’t venture past Deepground’s borders without risking the chip detonating. You also don’t dare attack the Restrictors for the same reason.”

Taking a deep breath, she went on. “The mainframes for the chips went up in smoke, but I bet I could still use the microchips to track anyone who’s still alive.”

“Tracking the survivors via the chips should make things a lot easier,” said Veld. “How accurate can you be? Once we’re down there, we don’t want to have to search miles of unstable corridors to find the right room.”

“Not a problem,” said Vincent without looking up from his notes. “Commander Sable and I will do the dangerous areas. We’ll be fine.”

“Good for you,” Veld said, rolling his eyes. “The WRO troops aren’t so lucky. Shelke?”

“The Restrictors could pinpoint you to the square inch. If I can find an active chip and get a location for it, Vincent and Nero can go in and clear the way for an extraction team.”

“Good,” said Vincent. “Commander Sable? Is that all right with you?”

“It’s fine,” Nero said slowly.

“Um,” Shelke began awkwardly. “There may be… There are people down there who may not see us as delivering angels. Most of the troops and Mothers are imports and will be only too glad to be rescued. The true born, however…”

“The what now?” Veld asked.

“Sorry,” Shelke apologized. “I mean the children born in Deepground, the children of the Mothers. There are kids as old as Nero and myself who might see this as an invasion, and not a rescue mission.”

Nero shifted, unsure if he liked the direction the conversation had taken.

“Either we do it or we don’t do it,” said Vincent. He turned to Shelke. “Do we have any idea how many troops might still be down there, capable of fighting back? And what they’re armed with?”

“I’ll run the chips first,” she said. “I can pull serial numbers, see who’s still alive, and what we’re dealing with. Nero can tell you what to prepare for once we have an idea.”

“Fine.” Vincent looked at his notepad again. “Commander Sable, when Shelke gives you the numbers, please provide a summary of troops and weapons we’re likely to face. You can send it to my office here.”

“Yessir,” Nero replied flatly.

Shelke visibly held back a frustrated sigh. “I’ll get started on that right away. Nero, why don’t you help me? You know the military personnel better than I ever did.”

“Sure,” he agreed. “If that’s all?”

“I think we’re done,” said Vincent. He rose and turned to Veld. “Coming?”

“You,” said Veld. “My office. Now.”

Vincent sighed. “Make it quick. I have work to do.”

\--

Veld shut his office door and looked at Vincent. “What the hell was that?”

“What was what?” said Vincent, flipping through his notepad.

Veld reached over and snatched the pad from him. “‘Commander Sable’ this and ‘Commander Sable’ that. Is that your idea of giving him space?”

Vincent made a grab for the notepad, stopping when Veld tossed it onto his desk. “Keep my emotional distance, you said. I didn’t before, and now I regret it. I just corrected the error. You should be pleased.”

“Don’t give me that crap. You said you wouldn’t turn your back on your son. Now you’re treating him like a stranger, at best. You’re making this harder than it has to be.”

“Really? Because from where I sit, it’s pretty damn hard.” Vincent crossed his arms, scowling. “He doesn’t want any kind of family relationship with me, Veld. If I have to be just another acquaintance, then I might as well start now.”

“You don’t have to be rude.”

“I’m using his title. How is that rude?”

“Valentine. I’m going to say something you won’t like, and I’m sorry I have to say it. Grow up.”

VIncent stared at him blankly, then grabbed his notepad off of the desk, and walked out. 

Veld sighed. 

\--

“Do you really want to go back?” Shelke asked, not looking up from her computer console, voice small. “Back to Deepground?”

“...no,” Nero admitted after several moments of silence. He stared hard at his own screen. “No, I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to live in fear of the Restrictors, or eat garbage. I don’t want to kill good troops for no reason.”

“But?”

“But I’m not having any luck up here,” he sighed. “I’m not like you Shelke. I wasn’t born to this. I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.”

Shelke smiled for him. “I think you’re doing pretty well. Hell of a lot better than I did my first week in Deepground.”

“Maybe,” Nero conceded, “but you were nine.”

“And you’re an adult. It’s a lot harder to adjust when you’re older. As a kid you’re used to taking orders and just doing whatever the adults tell you,” she explained. “You’ve had time to grown into your role. You’re a general, a leader. It can’t be easy to suddenly have to take orders because your rank isn’t recognized up here.”

Like Max, Shelke had hit the nail on the head. Her accuracy struck a nerve, and Nero winced ever so slightly.

“They made you start at the bottom,” Shelke went on as the revelation continued to roll over her. “Nobody trusts you. They don't know how dangerous you are, or how much you know.”

“Any ideas on how to get them to see me as an adult with a brain in my head?” he asked dryly.

Shelke shrugged. “I think you’re doing a decent job so far. Seems like you might have some unfinished business with Veld and Vincent, though. I know what you were trying to do with the shadows during the last meeting, but I don’t know how much they really understood it.”

“Not as much as I would have liked.”

“Nero.”

Nero stopped typing, looked down into her little face.

“A good leader knows when to back down; when to retreat and parley whether he’s commanding hundreds of men or just one.”

A brief laugh fizzed through his respirator. “You’re saying I should apologize.”

“I’m saying you shouldn’t cut out any potential allies. You may not need them to babysit you, but it wouldn’t hurt to have them in your corner. They’re both powerful in their own right. They command a lot of respect up here. People will listen to them even if they might not listen to you.”

Slowly, he nodded, recognizing the sense in what she said. “Okay,” he sighed, respirator humming. “But you know talking’s not really my thing.”

“We’re talking.”

“Yeah, but that’s different.”

“They don’t outrank you,” Shelke reminded him, “but they are older. They’ve been doing their jobs longer. You can call them ‘sir’, but you don’t have to take orders from them if you don’t want to, but it might be a good idea if you listened to what they have to say.”

“Okay, okay,” he told her, laughing outright. “You don’t have to tell me twice. I’ll go. Just let me figure out what to say first.”

\--

Except Nero still had no idea what to say when he arrived at Veld’s office. He had texted both Vincent and Veld, but wasn’t sure he could face both of them at once. A good leader might know when to back down, but he also knew when he was out-numbered. Veld was the one in charge, no matter how much he might insist otherwise, and it had been Nero’s mistake to only ask Vincent about Ned and the other squeakies. Vincent wanted him to like him for some reason. Vincent would agree to things that Veld would not.

Per protocol, Nero knocked on Veld’s office door and waited to be admitted. At Veld’s assent, he opened the door and stood at attention before his desk. Veld looked as if he was caught somewhere between exasperated and amused. Shifting to parade rest got him a barely disguised snort of laughter.

“Yes?” he prompted.

Now that he was here, words had fled, and protocol demanded he ask permission to speak. Veld had told him a hundred times it was not necessary, but it had been mandatory for so long, it was hard to get past. He half wished they could settle it in the training simulator, but given his track record, that might not end any better. 

Behind his respirator, Nero’s mouth opened and closed, but nothing more than wordless static emerged.

“P-permission to speak, Sir?” he managed to stammer. Veld suppressed a sigh, but nodded.

“I…” Dammit, what had Shelke suggested? Nero took a deep breath. “Sir, I was out of line that night. I broke protocol. I broke the rules. It was not my intent to aggravate you, or cause you to lose sleep. You and Vincent went out of your way to be hospitable and I...am still not sure what to make of that.”

It was clumsy, but honest, and all he had.

“I’d like to apologize, if I may. I don’t want what was said to interfere with day-to-day operations.”

Veld checked his first instinctive response. Nero’s words rang a bell - more than one. ‘Protocol’, asking permission to speak, and the structure of his speech were all standard military pattern. He’d noticed this before, but somehow it had not occurred to him that Nero responded best to this type of communication. 

The Turks had been something of a quasi-military organization. Working from that thought, Veld finally had a clue on how to communicate effectively with Nero.

“Accepted,” he said. “Thank you. Do you have everything you need to provide the information we requested for the rescue operation?”

“Yes, Sir,” Nero replied. “Shelke and I are still compiling the information. At present she’s counted over a hundred survivors and she’s still scanning. We anticipate high numbers of non-combatives and a few dozen like me. The imported troops shouldn’t give you much trouble once they know who you are and why you’re there.”

“Like you? You don’t mean Tsviets, correct?”

“Well, some of them are Tsviets, but a lot of them are too young. I meant that...they don’t know anything else. They’re not bad, not evil, but…” Nero trailed off lacking the words to explain. “They’re like _me_ ,” he repeated, not knowing how else to put it. “They’re not going to understand. I’d like authorization to deal with them personally, if at all possible.”

Veld smiled. “That’s exactly what I was going to suggest, actually. Consider it a priority.” He paused, thinking back on his recent conversation with Vincent. “You’ll need to coordinate with Vincent. He can deal with anyone who’s not afraid to get out of there, you deal with the ones who are. The two of you are more or less immune to most weapons, but don’t take unnecessary chances. I’ll leave it up to you and Vincent to decide who goes where once you’re down below.”

With that, Veld sent up a brief prayer to the gods he professed to not believe in. If he was very lucky, they might actually listen, and Vincent and Nero would be able to bridge their differences as they worked together. It was worth a shot.

“I will, Sir.” Nero saluted automatically, caught himself, and flushed a bit beneath his mask. “Sorry. Old habits. If there’s nothing further?”

“Nothing further. Go on.” Veld waved a hand at the door. “Dismissed.”

\--

That had gone better than expected. Bolstered a bit by his success with Veld, Nero knocked at Vincent’s office door. This was likely to be much harder, if for no other reason than it was difficult to gauge Vincent’s motives, or follow his logic. He’d seemed angry over the meeting, and Nero wasn’t entirely sure why. He waited for Vincent’s assent before letting himself in.

“Commander Sable.” Vincent removed his reading glasses, looking up from his notes. “Was there something you needed?”

The whole ‘Commander’ thing threw him a bit. Nero wasn’t used to Vincent being so formal. He’d thought about reciting the same speech he’d given to Veld, but somehow that didn’t seem appropriate here. Nero shifted awkwardly where he stood, floundering for something to say. Perhaps it was best not to overthink it.

“Sir...why are you calling me ‘Commander’ all of a sudden?”

“It’s your title,” said Vincent quietly. “I thought you’d prefer it.” He didn’t quite meet Nero’s gaze, instead glancing down at the glasses he still held in one hand. “You obviously thought I was being too familiar. I gave you the wrong impression. I don’t want to make that mistake again.”

“Please excuse the assumption, Sir,” Nero offered by way of an apology. “I’m still familiarizing myself with Surface customs.”

This wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped.

Vincent nodded. “I see. So...did you need something? I know Shelke was putting together the chip info. Do you have the troop summary?”

“Shelke’s still compiling it,” Nero said, resisting the urge to grab his own shoulders. “I’ll send you a full list once it’s ready.”

A very awkward pause.

“Sir… I don’t… That is… I’m not sure…” Nero contemplated the carpet for a long moment before taking a deep breath and looking up. “Sir what does it mean to be a father up here?”

Vincent went completely still for a moment. A dozen different emotions chased themselves across his face, and he turned his chair away from Nero, so that he faced the back of the room. 

“Why are you asking that now?”

“Because… Because you’ve said it several times now and I just kind of nodded and went with it even if I didn’t really know what you were talking about. I know it means something to you, but I don’t know what,” Nero told him honestly. “I don’t… I mean…” He let out a frustrated sigh that buzzed through his respirator like a saw blade. Maybe if he started smaller.

“You keep using the word ‘dad’. I’m assuming it’s a diminutive for ‘father’, but I don’t understand the significance.” He’d never heard it at all until Vincent had used it.

“It is that. It’s like...a nickname, I guess.” Vincent still didn’t look at Nero, studying the ceiling instead. “To be a father means...family. Caring. Protection.” He stopped, swallowed hard, and went on. “It’s a blood tie, but it’s more than that. A good father will do anything for his children, his family. Including die for them.” His voice dropped lower. “If he can.”

He turned around to face Nero. “There’s no proof, but you only have to look at the two of us to see it. It would be a hell of a coincidence if we weren’t related. Deepground didn’t attach any significance to fatherhood. We do. There’s not much else I can say. It’s not words. It’s feeling.”

Nero nodded slowly, a slightly perplexed expression lingering on his face. “I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t realize.” A pause. This wasn’t likely to go over well, but they kept telling him if he didn’t know, to ask. And Nero had no idea how to parse what Vincent was trying to explain.

“Is there similar significance and...feeling...for a son? I just want to know because…” Nero faltered, floundered, lacking the words. “Because I _don’t_ know. I’ve never been a son before.”

“I guess that makes us even,” said Vincent, his voice showing a hint of surprise. “I’ve never...well, never had the chance to be a father, let’s put it that way. I don’t know if I’d be any good at it. It’s a big responsibility when you’re dealing with a newborn. I thought it would be easier, in a way, with a grown son, but obviously I was wrong.”

“No excuse, Sir,” Nero said. “I’m not any more informed than you are in this instance. I don’t know what to do with a father. All I know is rank and pecking order. If...if it makes a difference, Sir, I’m not expecting any of that from you. I mean…” Dammit, why was he so bad at words?

“You don’t… You don’t have to go to any special trouble for me. You and Veld have already done way more than anyone’s ever done. I’d actually like to apologize for that one night. It was not my intent to get you in trouble, or to initiate an argument.”

Vincent said nothing for a long moment. His eyes shifted from place to place as though he sought something; maybe he was just as bad with words as Nero. 

“You don’t need to apologize to me,” he said. “Veld was the one who got angry. As for the rest, I… I don’t want to talk about it. 

“Was there anything else? I have a lot of work to do before we go back to Deepground.”

Nero consulted the carpet for advice, but none was forthcoming. Well, it was as Shelke had said: a good general knew when to cut his losses and retreat. He’d tried to parley. If the other side wasn’t interested, there wasn’t much he could do.

“No, sir. Sorry to disturb you.” Offering a brief salute, Nero dismissed himself.

\--

Sometime between five-thirty and six o’clock, Veld stopped at Vincent’s office. His partner still sat at his desk, apparently transcribing his notes from the notepad to his computer. The reading glasses gave him a serious, bookish sort of look. It was, as the kids would say, ‘hot’ - but Veld wasn’t about to admit it.

“Thought I’d head home for dinner,” Veld said, “as it’s likely to be our last decent meal for a few days. You coming?”

Vincent didn’t even glance at him. “Little early, isn’t it?”

Okay, that was Valentine-speak for “not talking to you.” Vincent was still pissed off at being told to grow up. Veld was getting good at this. About time, after thirty-plus years. 

“Well, I’m going,” he said, keeping his voice level. “Am I cooking for one or for two?”

“I’m not hungry.”

He rarely was, but he usually ate anyway, to please Veld, who knew a verbal flipping-off when he heard one.

Damn it, he really wasn’t in the mood for another fight. Vincent was the expert at holding grudges; for Veld, anger was a shell that burst and quickly dissipated. On the eve of a major operation, peace was a much more appealing option.

“Vincent,” he said gently, “I could use the company.”

Vincent blinked, and Veld couldn’t be sure, but he may have blushed just a little. “Sorry.” 

Removing the glasses, he rubbed his eyes. “I just...I’m not...handling things well.”

“You mean Nero?”

“Yeah, what else?” 

“He stopped at my office to apologize for the Ned incident,” said Veld. “He didn’t come talk to you next?”

“No, he did, but we just...talked in circles. I couldn’t answer his questions, and he made his position crystal clear.”

He glanced at Veld. “He doesn’t need me, Veld. He doesn’t want me as his father, maybe not even as a friend. No one really--” He stopped, scowling.“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

Translating in his head, Veld came up with, ‘It matters a hell of a lot, but I don’t want to talk about it.’

He reached over and with a few clicks, shut down Vincent’s computer. “Come on, Vince. Come home, have dinner, and try to relax a little before you have to go below again. It’ll work out.”

Vincent rose, tucking the glasses into a pocket. “I’m sure it will. Just not the way I want it to.”

“Enough negativity, Valentine. Giving up is not an option.”

Vincent sighed. “All right. I’ll...think of something.”


	35. A Letter to Nero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which lines of communication are open.  
> Vincent's no good with the spoken word, so he tries a different approach.  
> Meanwhile, Veld and Nero seem to have worked out a common vocabulary.  
> It's a start.

_Dear Nero,_

_You keep asking me “what I’m on about.” I’m going to try to tell you._

_I’m doing it this way because I’ve never been good with words. Finding the right words takes time, I have to search, and people don’t have much patience with that. It wasn’t always this hard, but then things happened to me, a long time ago. Writing is easier than talking._

_I asked Shalua to do a paternity test because you and I look so much alike, it seemed impossible that we aren’t related somehow. Father and son was the most logical possibility. But she can’t tell because of the Jenova in your blood. Officially, we may never know for sure. But I believe it’s true._

_It wasn’t important in Deepground because they just created a breeding program to make warriors. I was never asked if I wanted to take part in it; I don’t know if your mother volunteered, or was forced to bear a child. Someone took what they needed from me and used it to help create you. But that’s not the usual way to make a child._

_Most people have children because they want to - because they want to create a family. It’s done in love, not as a science experiment. Most mothers and fathers live together and bring up their children together. Sometimes it doesn’t work out well, and a lot of people aren’t very good parents, but most people do the best they can._

_I told you that being a father meant protection, and caring. I know I never did that for you. If I had known you existed, I would have done everything in my power to get you out of Deepground. Where was I while you were growing up? I spent many years literally asleep, in a kind of stasis, as a result of experiments that were done without my knowledge or consent. I’ve only been out in the world again for a few years. Sometimes it confuses me too._

_You grew up in a strange, cold, clinical place, among people who practiced horrible brutality. Many of them were cruel. No one should ever hurt a child. Ever. I know you had people you cared about, people who cared for you, and that there were people in Deepground who tried to mitigate the bad things. But you were left with a way of life that only works in one place in the world, and that place, that way of life, is no longer viable._

_You have a life here now, and you have good things in it: Max, the Turks, Veld. I wanted to be one of the good things. I wanted to be your father in fact as well as blood, to be the person who teaches you, strengthens you, stands behind you or beside you when you need me. That’s what a father is for. I guess I wanted to be needed._

_I know I don’t look it, but I’m the same age as Veld, and a lot of weird things were done to me in those illicit experiments. I’ll never have a family. For you to come into my life was a blessing, a gift that I don’t deserve. I tried to find a way to be worthy of that, but it seems that all I do is confuse you or upset you. Like wanting to hug you._

_Parents hug their children. It’s a sign of affection, or a way to comfort. That’s all._

_Most of the time, I don’t want to be touched. I have scars, inside and out. It isn’t easy for me to get past that, with anyone but Veld. Holding you makes you more real to me because I keep thinking that I couldn’t be that lucky, to have you in my life._

_I didn’t know that it felt wrong to you. That isn’t what I wanted to convey, but I’m not very good at being a dad. I don’t know how to say the things that matter most in a way that you’ll understand._

_It’s hard to explain. I just know it hurts like hell to know that I’ll never be a part of your family, to find you and then lose you because you don’t want or need a father. As long as I know you’re alive, and you’re doing well, I guess that’s all I can ask for._

_Please take care of yourself._

_Vincent_

 

\--

 

Well, it was better than Vincent yelling at him. While the letter clarified a few things, Nero was still utterly lost on a few others. Parents and kids were a thing up here, apparently. What that actually involved, Nero was still a bit fuzzy. He’d have to ask Max about it. She’d had a mom and a dad who were around when she was little. She would have been right in the middle of something like Vincent had described. She would know. How to handle Vincent, however…

There had been guys in his unit who got like this. Not obsessive, per se, but a little more needy and clingy than they ought to be. Anyone in ranks had to possess a certain amount of self-sufficiency, and that covered a lot of territory. As their CO, Nero had been responsible for their well-being, but only to a point. It wasn’t his job to babysit them if they were having some sort of personal crisis. Max had hinted that Vincent was “squirrely” and “broody”. Nero guessed those were euphemisms for someone who maybe wasn’t as mentally balanced as he could have been. It was no good asking Vincent; such a question was only likely to upset him more. There was only one other person he could think of to ask.

Nero had no idea if Veld used the texting feature on his phone. However, he took the incoherent keyboard smash of characters as an affirmative. The smiley face might or might not have been intentional. He supposed he’d find out. It wasn’t as if Veld should have a hard time picking him out of the other people taking a break in the coffee shop. He stood out enough.

Veld cleared his afternoon schedule when he received Nero’s text. It was likely he’d need more than a few minutes to explain Valentine to Nero. He turned up in the coffee shop as requested, and found Nero sitting in a booth near the back, presumably to be less noticeable both by skittish patrons, and Vincent himself should he happen to wander in. 

“Hello, Nero. Let me get coffee and then I’ll be happy to answer your questions.” He ordered a large - grande, venti, whatever the hell they called it - because explaining Vincent needed a substantial amount of caffeine to fuel his brain.

He slid into the seat opposite Nero, took a sip of the blessedly-hot and strong coffee. “Okay, shoot.”

Nero took a moment to mark off another drink on the menu card and tucked pen and menu into his jacket before sliding the letter across the table to Veld.

“I guess it’s a good thing that he likes me,” Nero began once Veld had had a chance to scan the letter, “but he seems really hell bent on this. I don’t dislike him, but I feel like maybe encouraging this might not be the best idea.”

He paused, took a sip of his coffee, and decided that white-chocolate-raspberry was a bit too much for even his sweet tooth. Also, it tasted weird with the underlying savory flavor of the coffee.

“Is Vincent...” Nero stalled, trying to remember how Reno had phrased it, “alright upstairs?”

Veld took a few moments to think about that. “Yes and no.” He sighed, taking another long sip of coffee, and loosened his tie. Might as well get comfortable. 

“Yes, in that there’s nothing abnormal about wanting a relationship with his son - assuming you are his son, and it’s true that there are enough similarities to seriously consider that possibility. Also - and I won’t go into detail here, it’s a long story - Vincent lost a son, several years ago. I suspect that’s a factor in this situation.

“As he says, most people are close to their children, even after they grow up and move away. It doesn’t always work out that way, of course.” The smile he gave Nero was a little crooked and sad, but he went on. 

“And no, in that he’s never been what the world calls ‘normal’. Vincent has three other personalities besides the one we know as Vincent. You’ve met Mask - Hellmasker. He’s the troublesome one. There’s a very long story behind those experiments Vince mentioned. Suffice it to say that they gave his other personalities independent wills of their own. Keeping them in balance is a thing he does on a daily basis, with varying degrees of success. However, I don’t think they have anything to do with his feelings for you.

“I don’t know the whole story of what happened to him during the experiments, but I do know he still has nightmares, decades after it happened. So there’s that.”

He paused for another long sip of coffee. “Any questions before I go on?”

Nero nodded reflectively, fiddling with his coffee cup as he turned the information over in his mind. “I guess not. I knew there was a lot he wasn’t telling me, but I didn’t feel it was my place to ask. It makes sense he might develop a vicarious attachment to me if he’s lost one child already.”

Loss was something Nero was all too familiar with. If what Vincent was feeling was anything like what Nero was feeling about being separated from Weiss and Rosso… He suddenly had a much greater appreciation of what Vincent was experiencing.

“I don’t know what constitutes a normal parent-child relationship,” Nero confessed. “I mean, I’ve seen what I assume to be parents or at least caretakers with small children. They seem happy enough. I was taken care of by nurses and tutors until I was old enough to be put in ranks. They were nice enough, but I barely remember any of them. Only one or two stand out in my mind, and I don’t feel any special attachment to them.”

Veld nodded. “That’s what I assumed, from what you’ve told us so far about your life in Deepground. I know that was normal for you, and in both my professional and personal opinion, you’ve turned out pretty well. Vincent feels the same, even though he expresses anger over the other aspects of your childhood - the Restrictors, especially. He’s not angry at you, or blaming you. The rest of it…”

He sighed. “I can’t stress enough that children are considered precious. They aren’t just assets, or resources, in most places up here. Family is extremely important to us, just as it is to you. And Vincent hasn’t got anyone else. There’s me, and I won’t live forever, while Vincent is likely to be around for a very long time. He’s already lost everyone else who mattered to him. I don’t know if any of this helps you to understand where he’s coming from.”

Nero nodded, the look of intense concentration indication that he was doing his best to understand-- and didn’t. Not completely.

“Weiss and I are brothers,” he said slowly, attempting to verbally sort out some equivalent to his own experience. “Half-brothers, anyway. We have different fathers, but the same mother. We were carried by two different surrogates. We’re special because not too many people in Deepground share genetics, unless Warden brings in two recruits from the same family. That made Weiss extra important to me, and me to him; an extra degree of closeness that neither of us had with Rosso.”

“Okay, that’s not much different from some surface families,” said Veld. “Couples may split up, or a parent will die. People pair up with someone else, maybe have more kids, and create a blended family. Sometimes, family means people who came together in some other way, but they love and support each other regardless of the absence of blood ties. It all comes down to family, Nero. And I think that’s a basis for understanding, whether you were born in Deepground or here on the surface. Does that make sense?”

“Kind of,” Nero hedged in a tone that said all too clearly that it didn’t. “I could see if he had a soft spot for me, or was happy to see me again. Mostly he just seems sad and angry. Granted, that’s apparently his default setting, but….moreso when it comes to me. I swear to gods I am not _trying_ to piss him off, but I keep doing so without meaning to.”

“Nero, it’s not you. He’s not angry at you. He’s having a hard time getting past what the Restrictors did to you. Shelke told us about them removing your respirator as punishment. Imagine how you feel when someone hurts your siblings. That’s how Vincent felt about you being hurt. Why do you feel that he’s pissed off at you? Am I missing something?”

“Every time I try to talk to him, he either shuts down, or blows up in my face,” Nero sighed. “Either that or he gets all weepy and melancholy. Maybe he’s not angry at me personally, but I’m in front of him when he gets angry. I don’t care if he shouts at me,” this was a lie, and a bad one, “but I’d like to be able to avoid upsetting him if at all possible.”

Nero heaved a deep breath, his mask rasping musically. “I know how to manage people who...don’t live on Gaia all the time.” That was another line from Reno. “If that’s how I need to treat Vincent, just tell me.”

The coffee, Veld decided, wasn’t nearly strong enough for this. “He shuts down because he doesn’t know how to tell you what he’s feeling. I’m familiar with that one, but I can get around it by virtue of the fact we share a bed. I’m not sure why he blows up. Can you give me an example, even a generic one?”

“Mostly when I try to tell him about Deepground. I get that he doesn’t like it.” No he didn’t. “He’ll ask me things about myself, and when he doesn’t like the answer…” Nero barely repressed a shudder. Having the right answer was something he’d always had hanging over his head. Maybe Vincent wouldn’t take it out of his hide or anyone else’s, but the shouting still frightened him more than Nero was willing to admit.

“Okay, well, that’s an easy fix. Don’t tell him any more about it. If you want to talk about those things - if you need to - come talk to me. I promise I won’t blow up at you. Or you can speak to the Turks, they don’t get upset easily. There’s always Cissnei, too. It’s her job to listen to you vent, without judging you or your past.”

Veld hesitated, not wanting to ask the question that came to mind, but he had to be fair to Nero. “Do you want me to tell him to stay away from you?”

“No,” the response was immediate, automatic. “Like I said, I don’t dislike him. He seems cool, but wound a little tight. Also, I wasn’t sure how far I should let him go with this.”

Nero looked at the table top, fidgeted slightly where he sat. “I’m not… I’ve never…” He heaved a familiar, frustrated sigh though it wheezed through his mask in disjointed notes like a harmonica.

“I can’t fake something I don’t know anything about,” Nero admitted, voice so low it was barely detectable over the white noise of coffee shop chatter. “I don’t know how to be a son. I don’t know what he expects of me. I just…”

Shelke’s words echoed in the back of Veld’s mind: 

_“Nero was special. Is special. They never repeated the dark mako experiment for a reason: he was too powerful for them to control physically. Even with the microchips...we might not have been able to escape the borders of Deepground, but I truly believe Nero could have taken down the Restrictors himself if they’d let him think he could do it. I suspect that’s why they were hardest on him. It’s not that he slipped up so much as he could never do anything right. Even as a kid, I could see him being set up to fail. The Restrictors **did that on purpose**.”_

If Nero thought Vincent was intentionally setting him up to fail… Veld heaved a sigh of his own. If ever there _was_ an argument for Vincent and Nero being father and son, this would be it.

“All right then, that makes you even. Vincent tells me he doesn’t know how to be a father, but it’s clear he’s determined to try. As he says in the letter, he wanted to do the things that fathers usually do for their sons: Guide you, protect you, and so on. The thing is, you’re an adult. You don’t need him to hold your hand. He’s afraid that he’s failed you.”

Veld met Nero’s worried eyes. “Don’t let that scare you. I’m not suggesting you do everything his way. If you think you can handle him the way you did with people in Deepground, go ahead. And if you don’t want him to know that you talked with me about this, that’s fine. I promise I won’t let him know that I’ve seen this letter.”

“I...would appreciate that, Sir,” Nero said. “I think… I think I know how to proceed now. I can try, anyway. If it doesn’t work, well,” the rueful smile was evident despite the mask, “I imagine you’ll hear about it.”


	36. Beneath the Surface

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nero and Max's relationship goes a bit deeper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Non-graphic shenanigans and general mushiness to follow.  
> If that is not your thing, feel free to skip.
> 
> This may look familiar.  
> Originally, this chapter went much earlier in the story. Then stuff happened, characters did things, and I realized this came WAY later. Except, of course, I forgot to change the chapter number and wound up accidentally posting it for like 24hrs about two months ago.  
> Oops.

“Mr. Tuesti’s sent an exploratory party of a couple of drones down today,” Nero said, his smile clearly visible despite the respirator. “He wants me to move the elevator tomorrow.”

Now that he knew where it was, it wasn’t unusual for Nero to appear in Max’s living room now and again. He’d only surprised her roommate once, but he’d taken it in stride. Max’s little apartment was a safer haven than Veld and Vincent’s house had been, requiring fewer rules to be followed. Max was glad to see him when he appeared after a text to ask if he might visit.

“That’s so awesome!” She smiled, and squeezed him in a brief hug. Nero tensed under her arms, and she mentally kicked herself for forgetting he wasn’t the touchy-feely type.

He might have flinched, but his smile had not faltered. “I’m super excited,” he went on. “You’re going to love them. Weiss talks big, but he’s actually really nice, and I know you and Rosso are going to get along great!”

“I’m looking forward to meeting them,” Max smiled.

“This’ll be so much easier,” he continued. “Azul and Argento know how this Surface thing works and they speak Deepground, so less will get lost in translation.”

Max was struggling not to giggle. “Well, I think you’ve done pretty well on your own so far.”

Beneath his mask, Nero colored slightly. “Aw, I dunno…”

“No really,” Max insisted. “You’ve made a lot of progress, most of it on your own.”

“Veld and Vincent helped,” Nero shrugged modestly. “So did you.”

“Yeah how’s that going?” Max asked. “Last I saw things looked a little rocky.”

“Well, Veld and I are okay, but Vincent’s still acting weird.”

“Eh,” Max shrugged, “that’s Vince’s default setting. He proudly broods to the beat of his own drum.”

That made Nero laugh. It wasn’t something he did often. The noise shot through his respirator short and sharp, ending in a feedback squeal that made them both wince.

“Sorry,” he apologized.

“Forget it,” Max waved the apology away. “Sit down, make yourself at home. You want some coffee or cocoa or something?”

“Sure,” he agreed, a slight smile evident behind his mask. There was uncertainty lingering in his golden eyes, however. He perched on the edge of the couch, fidgeting slightly. “When you grabbed me earlier… Does that mean you want more than coffee? Or is ‘coffee’ code for something? I’m not sure how that works up here.”

“Code?” Max frowned, and then burst out laughing. “Oh! Oh Gaia. No. I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have jumped all over you, huh?”

He still looked perplexed, maybe a little hurt. She touched his hand, light as a whisper. 

“Nero, I didn’t mean to be...well, flip about it. I really like you a lot. Hey, look.” 

She pulled a chain out from under her sweater. Dangling on it was the ring he’d dug out of the wall in the mako cave, no longer broken.

“I had a jeweler fix it for me so I could keep it on here,” she said. “I know it’s not any kind of promise or anything, just a gift. But you were generous and sweet, and I really appreciate that, and…” 

She glanced at the door. No sign of Dalton.

“To be honest….I have no objections to getting, well, cozy. Friendlier. You’re a great guy. So, well. We can just hang out and...see what happens from there?”

Nero nodded, still turning this information over in his head. “Okay. Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be creepy. I must seem really stupid…” A pause. “Why would old jewelry be a promise?”

“Oh, that’s right, you wouldn’t know.” Max sat on the sofa next to him. “Well, up here, when people get engaged...erm, when they make a promise to be committed to just one person, sometimes the man buys the woman a special ring to mark their promise. Then when they get married, they both wear rings to signify that they’re married so other people won’t hit on them.” 

She rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t always work out, and some people don’t respect what the rings mean, but you get the idea. Not every ring is a promise, though. It can just be a gift between friends."

“Wow. Yeah. Okay. I just thought it was pretty and that you would like it,” Nero said, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. About sixty per cent of that had made sense. It sounded interesting, as did the idea of being bonded to just one person. At least, that was what he assumed ‘married’ meant. No one had been married in Deepground that he’d been aware of.

“None of that is- was- really a thing in Deepground. All we had were JOEs, JANEs, and Mothers, but you don’t want to hear about that.”

“Now that’s where you’re wrong, actually. I want to hear about everything. But not all at once. I’m not trying to be creepy, either.” 

She tucked the ring and its chain back under her top. “This reminds me, we got those emerald earrings from the cave, too, and I offered to pierce your ears. We can still do that if you want.”

“Rosso always wanted earrings,” he remarked, “but they weren’t practical for fighting. I wouldn’t mind.”

“I know, you men always have to be macho and all that, pretend nothing hurts. Anyway, you can take your earrings out before battle, right? Assuming they ever let you back in the simulator. Or if you do join the Turks and you go on a mission somewhere.”

“I guess.”

Max frowned. “Look, if you don’t want them, that’s cool too. Don’t let me twist your arm, okay?”

Nero shifted and looked away, clearly uncomfortable.

“What?” she asked gently.

“I’m...really bad at decisions like this,” Nero confessed. “Military strategy is one thing, but the weirdest stuff could land you in hot water. You always had to have the right answer and...I don’t know what the right answer is for this.”

“Oh my gods Nero, I’m sorry!” Max leaned over to hug him, checked herself, and held back again. “The right answer is whatever _you_ want. Forget about it. It’s not important.”

“Sorry,” Nero apologized, “I know it’s stupid…”

“No!” Max insisted. “No, it’s...it’s okay, really. Just tell me when I get too pushy. You are totally allowed.” Rather than hug him, she scooted a bit closer and leaned against him a little. Surprisingly, Nero blushed.

“So...you know that’s more or less what passes for a hug in Deepground?”

Max blinked. “What? This?” She allowed more of her weight to rest against his arm.

“Yeah.” Nero leaned back a little. “I guess it’s not too forward up here but…”

Awkwardly, he wound one arm around her shoulders and lightly squeezed. Something deep inside her squealed with delight.

“Not at all,” she assured him. “I meant what I said earlier. About getting cozy. Unless you don’t want to! The only right answer here is what you want. What your heart and your gut and...other things are telling you.”

That made him snicker a bit, his cheekbones staining a darker shade of gray.

“I couldn’t,” he said quietly. “It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just… It’d be a bad idea.”

“Why?” Max pressed gently.

“Well, for one thing, I’ve got Jenova in my system,” Nero began. “And I know from personal experience that Jenova and women don’t mix. More than half of the Mothers...” He trailed off awkwardly. “You don’t want to hear about that. It’s just a bad idea. That’s all.”

“I know about Jenova. Heard about that since I was a kid.” Max stayed where she was, against his arm; if this was all he’d had in Deepground, at least he’d had some affection. That was a start. 

“I’m not ready to have kids anyway,” she said. “So if we feel like messing around, well, we’ll need protection. Not sure the standard issue stuff is going to be enough, though.”

“Yeah, no,” Nero agreed, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “The jokes are true. I don’t want to accidentally poison you or worse. Also, I’m worried I might…Well… I’m worried I might shadow you somewhere weird. It kinda happened once already...” The last sentence was mumbled, rendered as barely discernible static by his respirator.

“Really? When was this?”

“Forever ago,” he said, too embarrassed to meet her eyes. “It was my first time to report, and I was nervous, and I may have accidentally warped a Mother into a broom closet. She was okay,” he hastened to add, “but the Restrictors kicked me off the Breeding Program after that.”

Max couldn’t quite suppress a snicker at the thought of a naked woman being transported into a broom closet. “Okay, that sounds a little...unfair? I mean, you didn’t do it on purpose. How old were you?”

“Well, Mothers are valuable,” Nero explained. “Deepground’s kinda low on females because of the Jenova thing.” He paused as he thought about the second half of her remark. “Thirteen. I remember because they made me wait an extra year. Weiss started at twelve and I remember thinking it wasn’t fair.”

Okay, there were just a whole lot of things wrong with that--but none of it was Nero’s fault. He certainly wouldn’t have been the first thirteen-year-old to have sex.

“That’s...awfully young,” she said, trying to be diplomatic. “And Weiss was twelve? Wow. But I guess with all the mako and Jenova and everything, you guys all grew up pretty fast, huh?”

“Yeah, puberty kinda hit us like a truck somewhere around nine or ten,” Nero shrugged. “I looked like I was about fifteen when I was twelve.” He briefly looked up, golden eyes flicking to meet hers before he had to look away again.

“It’s just...a thing you do in Deepground,” he tried to explain. “There's none of the emotional stuff like up here. A lot of times- doesn’t matter if you’re a Mother, or a JANE, or a JOE- you don’t get a lot of say in what happens to your body, so you don't treat it like a huge deal.”

“Okay, well.” Where to begin? Max thought about it for a few moments. “Here, you absolutely get a say in it. Not that everyone respects that principle all the time, but it’s the ideal. You have the right to say ‘no’, anytime, to anyone. People do it for all kinds of reasons - love, lust, even sometimes when they hate each other, if you can believe that. But it should always be your choice.

“Oh, and most places have a legal age for consent. You can get in major trouble if you sleep with someone who’s legally underage, even if they wanted to. You’re the adult, so it’s on you to make certain your partner’s of age. And respect a ‘no’ if you get one.”

Nero nodded. “Yeah, Azul told us ‘you ask once, and if they say no, you take your business elsewhere’. After the...broom closet incident, I never bothered to ask.”

A pause. “...I don’t actually know how old I am.”

“Oh. I never thought of that!” He’d just told her he looked older than he was. She peered more closely at him. “I’m twenty. Age of consent in Midgar is sixteen. Do you think you’re at least that old?”

“Oh yeah,” he agreed. “Three years after that mess, Weiss accidentally broke my arm again, and that was ages ago. So yeah, I’m probably at least as old as you are, or close to it.”

Well, that was a relief. At least she wasn’t going to be accused of corrupting a minor. Max grinned. “Good. So if I kiss you...oh, wait. I can’t.” Damn respirator.

Nero blinked. “Kiss? Me? Seriously?” He seemed caught somewhere between intrigue and alarm. He glanced around the room as if afraid her roommate might show up at any moment. No, it wasn’t Dalton he was worried about. The shadow tableaux of the Restrictors, and the fatal punishment of the lovers they’d caught came vividly to mind.

“We shouldn’t,” he began, voice halting. “Not here-- and yeah, this thing makes it hard.” He tapped the side of his mask. He said the next words slowly, as if unsure he was processing all this correctly. “We could...go to the cave? If you want? We don’t have to.”

Was that a come-on? Max studied what she could see of his face. He really was sweet, a bit shy, and not at all demanding or pushy. Probably the nicest guy she knew, and in the short time she’d known him, she’d gotten very fond of him. She made a decision.

“Sure, I’ll come with you. Hang on a second.”

She hadn’t been kidding about standard protection, and she knew he wasn’t either. However, Dalton’s last crush had been a SOLDIER, and there was a box of SOLDIER First Class-grade condoms still around somewhere. She checked the bathroom cabinet. Yes! 

Stuffing a few into her pocket, she returned to the living room and winked at Nero.

“I’m ready!”

“Okay.” Taking her hand in his, he pulled her into shadow. Rather than lead her down a tunnel of pure darkness, the shadows swirled around them and then vanished just as quickly. The familiar dim purple light of the mako pool rippled in friendly waves over the surface of the cavern walls.

There was an awkward pause as he stood there, holding tightly onto her hand. It took him a moment to meet her eyes.

“Are you sure?” he repeated, searching her face. Even though they were miles below the surface of the earth, hidden from even the most determined of snoops, fear lingered in his expression, in his stance.

“I’m positive,” said Max. She touched his face lightly, her fingertips skimming the edge of his respirator. “You’re beautiful, inside as well as out. You have a good heart. So. If you’re as sure as I am, let’s get in the pool, okay?”

Behind his mask, his cheeks flushed dark gray. “Okay.”

Nero didn’t wait, his suit disappearing in a wave of shadow, and diving right in. Max hurried out of her own clothes, reflexively crossing her arms over herself as she crossed the few feet of smooth stone floor to the edge of the pool. The dark mako lapped cool, but not cold against her skin. Nero floated just below the surface, looking up at her like a water demon out of a fairy tale. No demon had ever had such an innocent, open expression. Without his mask, it was easy to see the eerie resemblance to Vincent. Nero’s features were softer, somehow, than those of the senior Turk.

Max fought the urge to hold her breath as she ducked under the surface. The first breath was always awkward, instinct and reason struggling briefly before her body realized that it was not actually going to suffocate. Nero drifted a few feet away, the soft glow of the mako making his pale skin white and luminous. Not metaphorically white, but actually white. The white of marble, or the moon. He might not think much of his own appearance, but he had an unearthly beauty unlike anything or anyone else. 

Uncrossing her arms, she swam over to him. His eyes swept over her once, not lingering on anything in particular. It was a little odd to _not_ have a guy stare at her tits, especially when they were _right there_ in front of him. Nero genuinely didn’t seem to care, and smiled, eyes on her face. Max let her eyes wander a bit more, taking in the damage to his hands and the blistered skin that ran halfway up his forearms. A dark gray flush crept up his neck and into his cheeks as she put her arms around him, more color staining his chest and shoulders. He seemed to be at a loss as to what to do next, which made sense. Leaning in, Max touched her lips to his, letting her hands travel down his torso.

Nero might be new at this, but he was a quick study. At first he only copied her, mimicking the kisses and caresses she gave to him. After a moment, it was Nero doing the exploring, trying to find her weak spots, to see what made her sigh and shiver under his touch.

“Is this okay?” he breathed, his words warm against the side of her neck.

“Yes,” she gasped, light-headed. Not to be outdone, she reached and grinned at his sharp intake of breath.

“Max…”

She had to help him with the protection she’d pillaged from Dalton’s stash. Nero was a bit perplexed at first, had blushed furiously, and both had dissolved into giggles. Max had expected the moment of awkwardness to kill the mood. Instead, it had quite the opposite effect.

The weird part was, prior to this, he had never shown any interest in her body at all, not the way she was accustomed to, anyway. Nero didn’t care if she was naked or covered head to toe. So far as she knew, he liked her, but had only the most nebulous concept of romantic love. Max was big enough to admit her own motivations, but still wondered about his. It wasn’t that she thought he would cheat on her, or even tell tales in the locker room. She knew beyond doubt he would never do either.

 _What is this to you?_ she wondered, even as he pulled her close against him and she wrapped her legs around his waist. _I know it’s more than just a good time…_

Reassured that he wasn’t going to poison her, some of Nero’s hesitation left him. He tried to be gentle, tried to start slow, but there was an urgency in his movements, as if he were afraid he’d run out of time. There were no Restrictors here. No one was likely to barge in on them with the possible exception of Vincent.

“Easy big guy,” she soothed, cradling his jaw in one hand. “Don’t rush…” Stretching, she kissed the corner of his mouth and felt the muscles of his face soften. He’d been clenching his teeth. Max stroked a hand over his hair, disturbing a small cloud of shadow as she did so.

The scraps of darkness felt like strips of velvet against her skin, warmer than the mako and sinfully soft. Nero manipulated the shadows like extra hands, using them to hold her close, as well as to screen them from view, though there was no one to see them. He might have warped his first hapless partner into a broom closet, but Max had no fear of the same thing happening to her. The shadows shifted and Max gasped. Closing her eyes, she held on. Her questions could wait.

Whether it was Nero’s shadows, or she’d closed her eyes, Max wasn’t entirely sure. The blackness cleared, the silence softened only by their breathing. The shadows were gone, only Nero’s two arms holding her tightly against him. It took her a moment to realize those arms were trembling.

“...Nero?”

His face hidden in her neck, she did not immediately make out what he was saying.

“Don’t disappear,” he whispered, voice has shaky as his arms. “Don’t disappear on me…”

“You didn’t disappear me,” she assured him, stretching for a kiss. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“No… I mean…” he lifted his head to look at her, golden eyes large and frightened in the low light. He swallowed hard, searched for words, his attention drawn inward. And then it clicked. He’d lost so many people; his brother and sister, his foster parents, hell his entire world was now at the bottom of a crater beneath fifteen feet of dark mako

“Nero,” Max told him, cupping his cheek with one hand and lifting his face to look at her. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right here for as long as you need me. Even if this doesn’t work out long-term, we’ll still be friends. I want to keep you in my life. I’m _not. going. anywhere._ ”

She caught her breath as Nero’s arms tightened around her.

“ _Good._ ”


	37. Planning Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which preparations are made, at last, to venture into Deepground.  
> Also, Nero has a rather horrible revelation.

Reeve opened the meeting with an admonition. 

“This is not an invasion. It’s an evacuation.”

He nodded to Nero and Shelke. “Keeping in mind what our resident Tsviets have said previously about the way survivors may view the intrusion, I’ll ask you all to adhere to these instructions. Those who go below will be armed, for self-defense only. Our priority is to get the survivors out - the injured first. Don’t worry about records, equipment, or anything like that, just concentrate on people.”

He touched a key on his laptop, bringing up a schematic of the Deepground installation, based on the information that Nero had provided. Each member of the group had a similar machine in front of them, and the same image appeared on each person’s screen.

“Everyone will have these maps available on their phones,” said Reeve, with a pointed glance at Vincent, who was notorious for forgetting to keep his phone on him. 

“I’ll be at HQ directing the action from our situation room,” Reeve continued. “Shalua will direct the medical team. Tseng will coordinate the Turks, and Veld will liaise between Shalua, the Turks and me.”

Veld and Tseng nodded as Reeve went on. “Shelke, of course, will be in charge of the information flow in regard to the active microchips and functional surveillance cameras, so that we have an idea of how to _get_ to the survivors once they’re found. Captain Jensen,” he added with a nod to a woman seated to his left, “will direct the troops I’m sending down. They’ll be there as protection, in case anyone objects to being removed, but they’ll also help move people out as quickly as possible.”

The next image on their screens showed the so-named “Elevator to Hell” that Nero had created out of shadow a few weeks ago. “Nero and Vincent,” said Reeve, “will be our Team One. They’ll go down first to the areas Nero deems most likely to hold survivors. Again, the injured will be the priority: Get them up here as fast as you can, using your elevator or by whatever means necessary. We’ll have teams standing by with rescue equipment, triage, and so forth.

“Nero, I’m afraid you’re going to have to take point on this. You’ll need to convince frightened people that it’s in their best interests to leave the Deepground complex. As you know, some of the earlier, ah, ‘refugees’ have joined our troops, so they’ll be there to help deal with the reluctant.

“Does anyone have any questions, comments, suggestions?”

“Don’t wear your visors,” Shelke spoke up. All eyes turned toward her.

“Deepground uniforms have a full face plate,” she explained. “If the survivors can see your faces, that’s an indicator that you aren’t there to fight.”

The WRO had recently abandoned the slightly ridiculous first iteration of their uniform and now had something that resembled proper tactical gear, complete with helmet and full visor. The fact that a lot of it was repurposed SOLDIER equipment was tacitly ignored.

“Noted,” said Captain Jensen.

“One other thing,” Shelke went on. “I’m not sure the survivors are aware that their microchips are deactivated. Since the mainframes went up with Reactor Zero, there’s no computer to recognize when they cross the electric fence. However, I don’t know if the fence is still active or not. It would be best to wait until we’re certain it’s safe before moving anyone beyond the old Midgar city limits. It’s no good rushing someone to the hospital if they die on the way from the chip detonating.”

“I’ve been all over the damn place,” Nero spoke up, “and I’m fine.”

“Yes, but have you been outside of Midgar?” Shelke asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” Nero admitted. “But point taken. Is there a way to permanently disable...” He trailed off, realization dawning.

The ring he’d scooped out of the mako for Max. The earrings.

_Oh gods._

_Oh gods oh gods oh gods…_

The look of revelation frosted over into one of abject horror.

“Nero?” Shelke asked. All eyes were on him but Nero seemed unaware. After a long and awkward moment he shook it off, or pretended to. A haunted look lingered in his eyes.

“I can remove the microchips,” he said quietly. “I could have taken them out at any time.”

Shelke froze briefly as well. A heavy silence fell over the room. It was shattered by Reeve, for once not bothering with an optimistic tone.

“Good,” Reeve announced, the single word jarring everyone back to the present. “Once the evacuation teams have all the survivors out, you can move on to assisting processing them. I’m sure everyone will feel better once their chips are removed.”

“Yessir,” Nero responded blankly.

Vincent’s attention, until now focused on the maps, shifted to Nero. He started to speak, paused, and turned back to his laptop screen, silent again. Veld glanced at each of them, and decided to stay out of it.

Shalua offered a few suggestions and reminders regarding injured or incapacitated persons, Reeve fielded a few more questions, and then dismissed everyone. Nero stood and left the room automatically, a thousand-yard stare entrenched deep in his golden eyes. Veld thought about going over to him, but noticed Shelke by his elbow, and decided to inquire another time. Shelke would understand far better than he or Vincent ever could.

\--

To anyone not familiar with his quirks and idiosyncrasies, Nero might have appeared perfectly fine, if somewhat distracted. Shelke knew better. Nero walked down the hall, posture straight and steps even, yet his expression that of one concussed. Falling into old habits herself, she drew even with him as if by accident.

“It’s not your fault,” she told him softly.

“I could have saved them,” Nero said hoarsely, the respirator turning the words to a grim prophecy on an ill wind. “I could have saved _everyone_. We could have killed the Restrictors. We could have left. We could have stayed. I should have known.”

Nero had stumbled to a stop. Although he made no move to grab his shoulders, and no tears welled in his eyes, he was shaking so badly Shelke was amazed he was still upright. Giving him plenty of warning, she hooked a hand on his elbow, and gently drew him aside into one of the empty smaller conference rooms. She didn’t bother to turn the lights on, and the dim interior seemed to quiet Nero’s anxiety a little.

“Nero, listen to me,” she said in her best commander’s tone. “It is _not your fault_. How did you even figure it out in the first place?”

“Max,” he stammered, mask spitting and hissing as he tripped over the words. “I took her to the mako cavern and I showed her the shelf with all the jewelry and she thought it was pretty so I just...pulled one out and gave it to her.”

“And you didn’t know before then?”

Miserably, he shook his head. “No. No, I had no idea.”

He swallowed hard, the motion requiring his whole body to complete. Afraid he was going to be sick if she didn’t get him to snap out of it, Shelke reached and seized him by the collar, yanking him down to her level.

“ _Nero,_ ” she said with as much force as she could muster. “Stop it. It’s too late. It’s over. All you can do now is go and find them tomorrow. Got it?”

Shelke fixed him with her eyes, waiting until he gave a jerky nod.

“Tomorrow,” he repeated shakily. “We’ll find them tomorrow.”

“Yes you will,” Shelke promised without hesitation. Relaxing her grip on him, she leaned forward till their foreheads touched. “You’ll find them. You’ll be together. We’ll all be together. It’ll be okay, then.”

Nero took a sobbing breath and rubbed his head against hers. “We’ll be together. It’ll be okay.”

“Yes,” she told him softly, pressing back. “It will.”


	38. Rescue Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent and Nero scout ahead for survivors.  
> A truce is made, and just as quickly broken.

 

What with lining up mako specialists, medical personnel, and people to work the excavation equipment, Veld returned to work immediately after dinner and remained at the office into the night. He delegated some of the work to Vincent, including meeting with Shalua to call in as many EMTs as they could, while Veld himself coordinated preparations with the Turks. 

By midnight, they were well on track to begin excavating the Deepground site in about twelve hours. They’d put most of it together in less than a day. Shelke estimated there were several hundred mothers and children more or less trapped in one area, with a couple dozen surviving soldiers and support staff stranded in other areas. With everything ready and in place, all they needed was Nero to lead the charge.

The Mothers and children were the priority, unless Nero and Vincent discovered anyone else trapped in a more dangerous spot. That in mind, Nero stood facing the Elevator to Hell, a number of troops with visors flipped up standing in ranks behind him. Veld, having come to see them off before heading to the command center with Shelke, raised an eyebrow.

“That all you’re wearing?” he asked, nodding at Nero’s skin-tight gray mako suit.

“Don’t like me going commando?” Nero quipped. Veld blinked after a half-second. Had the kid just made a _joke?_

“They’ll recognize me in this,” Nero explained before Veld could reply. “I promise I’ll put some pants on when we’re done.”

Behind the high collar of his cloak, Vincent looked as if he were trying to choke back a snicker. Veld simply shook his head and clapped the boy on the shoulder.

“Good luck, kid. I hope you find ‘em.”

Nero nodded. “Thank you, Sir.”

Turning to face the elevator, Nero closed his eyes and laid his hands over the up-down buttons. Beyond the wall, Vincent fancied he heard the grinding of iron, the grating of cement. After several minutes, Nero gasped and looked up, taking an unsteady step back.

“Wait until the door opens to follow us,” he instructed the troops. “Agent Valentine and I will scout the area and find a safe route down to the survivors. Don’t even try to open the door until then. I’ll open it from my end. Understood?”

A chorus of “yes, sir’s” echoed in the otherwise empty lobby. Turning, Nero pushed the button. The black glass of the elevator door slid to one side, and Nero stepped through.

\--

The elevator’s doors closed, and they began to descend. Vincent’s stomach lurched upward, then back down. He winced. Beside him, Nero gave no sign that he felt anything. 

This would probably be the last chance Vincent would have for hours, to speak to him alone. From this day on, any interaction with him would be strictly on the professional level, if he wanted to have any contact at all.

Glancing sideways, he said, “Nero? I want to apologize for the ‘Commander Sable’ thing. Veld was right. It was childish. I’m sorry.”

Nero blinked and shrugged. “S’okay, Sir. I apologize as well. I’m not...I’m not trying to make things difficult for you.”

“They were difficult before you came along,” Vincent sighed. “Never mind. Let’s just get this done. I’m sorry it took as long as it did.” 

Nero nodded, the elevator slowing to a halt and the door sliding away. Pitch darkness yawned before them. In the distance, a single emergency light flickered feebly, a dying firefly in the endless black. Nero stepped forward, unperturbed.

Before they could rescue anyone, he and Nero had to first figure out their own location, and then that of the survivors. Shelke might be able to map the location of the microchips, but it was impossible to tell from that alone whether the area they were in was safe, or even passable. To do that, she would need access to the legion of surveillance cameras that dotted the walls and corners of Deepground at every turn. Many of them would have been damaged or disabled, but all of them were useless chunks of wire and plastic without electricity. Therefore, Vincent and Nero had to find one of the generators and activate the cameras, but not the electric fence. Shelke seemed confident that if only they could restore power, she could easily hack into the surviving computer systems and use the data for her own purposes.

“We’re a bit higher than I’d like,” Nero commented, eyeing the walls. “The gardens are on this level. There’s definitely an access point in there. However, I don’t know how much is intact. Ordinarily I’d just follow the shadows, but that’s not really going to work in this instance.”

It was the whole reason Nero hadn’t warped straight to the Mother’s primary enclosure. The landscape of Deepground had been forcibly rearranged due to Chaos’ attack. Trying to simply appear somewhere wouldn’t work if the geography had changed. At best, he’d appear somewhere different and unexpected. At worst, the area might be dangerous, or not even exist any more, which would result in pain if not injury. Therefore, they needed Shelke and the cameras to gain an idea of where to head.

Calling up Galian’s night vision helped somewhat. There wasn’t overly much to see. The walls seemed decently intact, if latticed with some less than reassuring cracks. Near the surviving emergency light was a door that better resembled the hatch of a submarine, or the seal of a bank vault. “RESTRICTED AREA” was spelled out in large red block letters. The lock was huge and heavy, and apparently rusted solid. Gigas might have been able to rip it off, but doing so without bringing the ceiling down was another matter entirely.

“Can we go around it?” Vincent asked.

“I don’t see why not.” Without further comment, Nero stepped sideways into the shadows.

Vincent followed as best he could. “I hope you know where you’re going,” he said, hurrying to catch up with Nero. “How far away is the area we’re trying to get to?”

Nero led him out of the shadows to the opposite side of the sealed door. There didn’t seem to be any method of opening it from this side, which seemed strange.

“We’re under Sector Six,” Nero began. “I don’t know the topside landmarks well enough to give you a reference. Suffice it to say we put down somewhere near the middle of the pie slice, and we’re heading for what’s left of the point.”

Vincent balked. “That’s miles!”

“Yep,” Nero nodded. “It’s okay, we can take a couple of shortcuts once the lights are on.”

“How big is the area the Mothers occupy?”

“I’m not 100% sure. I’ve never been to their barracks or anything, but most of what’s down here is comparable to what’s above.”

Again, Vincent was struck by the sheer size, the impossible scale of this dark mirror of a city. Nero had been right, Deepground was every bit as large as Midgar, but inverted, deep underground instead of stretching toward the sky. The space was vast, but not as heavily populated as the city on the surface. At least, he had assumed that was the case. Now he wasn’t so sure.

“So um, I read your letter.” Nero’s tone was aiming for casual, but echoed awkwardly off the bare concrete walls. The silence stretched painfully. “I’m not very good with words either. It doesn’t help that Surface Common and Deepground Common are virtually different languages.”

“That’s why I tried to keep it simple,” Vincent said. “I….don’t know if I succeeded. You said you didn’t understand what I was talking about. I just….tried to explain.”

He walked a couple of minutes in silence, and finally said, “Did it help?”

“Kind of?” Nero hedged. “I sort of get the whole family concept now.” He was not about to admit that Max had struggled to find words small enough for almost two hours in order for the information to penetrate his thick skull.

“I guess what I’m still kind of lost on is why it matters? You didn’t know me from Omega until a couple of months ago. Before that, you didn’t even know I existed. I could be a clone, or just look weirdly similar. Just another Shinra experiment.”

“Nero, that whole letter explained why it matters. Family is the center of everything. It’s why we’re down here now, searching through miles of rubble for the people you love.” Vincent stopped walking, started to reach toward Nero, then thought better of it and dropped his hand. “That letter...it wasn’t a due bill. I wasn’t asking you for anything. I just wanted you to understand. 

“Do you remember how you said it’s important to give the right answer? It’s like that for me, when I’m talking to you. I don’t know the right thing to say. So I just...said what was in my heart.”

Nero nodded slowly. “I’m really not trying to sound rude or ungrateful. You guys have already done a lot for me, and you didn’t have to. If anything, I owe the two of you.”

Heaving a deep breath that wheezed musically through his respirator, Nero stopped walking and turned to face Vincent.

“I don’t know how to be a son,” he said, a slight note of helplessness to his voice. “I don’t know the right words to say, or how to act. Please know that I’m not expecting anything from you- and that’s not an accusation!” he hurried to amend.

“I don’t hold you responsible for anything, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you around.”

“I know you don’t need me,” Vincent said. It hurt to say it, but he needed to admit it, to accept it. 

“You don’t have to do anything. Just be yourself. I can’t explain any better than that. I’ve lost everyone...except Veld. But I’m not asking you to fill those empty spots. I guess what I’m saying is, there’s no wrong answer. 

“If you remember...in that letter, I said I _wanted_. Not want. Past tense. I understand that I was asking for more than you could give. I’ll always be around but….not in your face anymore.”

“Okay,” Nero said, a curious finality to his tone. “Same goes for me. Truce?”

He held out his hand to shake.

Vincent took his hand, gripping it perhaps a little tighter than Nero might prefer, hanging on a few seconds longer. “Yes.”

If Nero noticed the slight drawing out of the handshake, he did not say anything, just turned and started walking again.

The way down to the electrical room wasn’t necessarily long, but rather circuitous, requiring them to make a number of detours through the shadows when doors were sealed, or hallways collapsed. The electrical room that held the generators was near to where the floor began to crumble away to open darkness exposed by the blast of Reactor Zero’s meltdown. After close to an hour of climbing through rubble, and sloshing through puddles of what Vincent hoped was only dirty water, they arrived at their destination.

There were deep cracks in the walls and floors, water flowing freely from a broken pipe. Severed electrical wires dangled from the ceiling, and more than one control panel sparked and fizzed to itself as if dreaming fitful dreams. Vincent kept expecting everything to be draped in cobwebs and a thick layer of dust. However, Deepground was simply hard used and not abandoned. The equipment might be old and abused, but it was anything but neglected.

“Okay,” Nero muttered, eyeing the damaged equipment. “We don’t need everything, just enough to get the lights on. No electric fence, no defenses measures, though it would help to get some of the coded locks online…”

Avoiding the sparking machines, Nero edged over to some others and began poking at them. Vincent squinted as suddenly the overhead lights flickered to life and the whir of machinery filled the silence.

“There,” Nero said, satisfied. “That’ll hel--”

A deafening _BANG_ split the word in half as one of the generators abruptly burst into flames. The walls creaked and groaned as one crack in particular widened, tearing the cement like wet paper. An ominous, almost human moan shuddered through the walls as the concrete cracked, crumbled, and abruptly gave way.

Without thought, without hesitation, Vincent dove for Nero. They tumbled to the floor, a heavy tangle of arms, legs and wings. As the dust of the collapsed wall settled, the weak light of the restored electric lights revealed scaly armor and red leather wings. For the second time, the guardian summon had spared the boy’s life.

“ _You!_ ” Nero gasped, scrabbling backward and out of Vincent’s- Chaos’- arms. For several heartbeats he gaped at Vincent, an expression of confusion and betrayal deep in his eyes.

“You did this,” Nero whispered, the puzzle pieces finally falling into place. “You were sent in to kill us, to destroy Deepground.”

Vincent could not deny it, did not even try, yet meeting Nero’s eyes was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

“Yes,” Vincent said quietly. “The WRO sent me in. Deepground had started releasing monsters, attacking civilians, kidnapping entire neighborhoods. I was the closest thing they had to a SOLDIER, so yes. They sent me to shut down Deepground.

“I intended to do it myself, but...I carry a summon materia. When I got inside, it - Chaos - took over. I had almost no control over what he did...not that it matters.”

Nero did not scream or rage, did not even ask why. His wounded expression had become blank and static. More than just a door had been slammed shut between them. A portcullis had come crashing down, permanently severing any hope of closeness. It might not have been a deliberate ploy to mess with Nero’s head, to toy with his emotions, but there was nothing Vincent could say to make Nero believe that. His surviving son was less than three feet away, yet he’d managed to lose him forever.

The horns and armor faded away, the wings folding back into otherwhere. Cursing at Chaos was pointless, but Vincent silently raged at him, and at himself, both for keeping Chaos a secret and for showing Nero the truth of what he was.

Mutely, Nero stood and touched his earpiece.

“Shelke, come in.”

“Roger,” her little voice was distorted and scratchy, as if she’d borrowed Nero’s respirator.

“We’ve got the lights on, but the route’s been closed,” Nero said, perfectly calm and even. “What else is open?”

“Looks like stairway 26C is okay. Can you get there?”

“Is that the one with the backward ‘exit’ sign?”

“Yes. And the ‘Kilroy was here’ graffiti with the mohawk.”

“Got it,” Nero confirmed. With only a brief “C’mon,” he headed deeper into the darkness.

The walk to the stairwell stretched for what seemed like hours of interminable, horrible silence. Nero didn’t wait for Vincent, nor did he seem eager to leave him behind, for which Vincent was grateful. The construction here was in rough shape, the walls splintered and crumbling, a thick layer of concrete dust coating everything. Carefully, Nero crunched down the stairs, testing each one before settling his weight on it fully. Something clattered loudly in the darkness, bouncing down the stairs and crashing to the next landing with a resounding metal echo. Squinting, Nero stooped and retrieved it.

He dropped it almost at once, dancing back as if afraid of it. Vincent fingered Cerberus’ grip, prepared to shoot, only to blink as a badly dented helmet rolled into the sickly yellow glow of the emergency light. He cocked his head at Nero, questioning.

“That’s Argento’s helmet,” Nero whispered, respirator reducing the words to a dry wheeze. Hurriedly, he cast about the stairwell for more of her armor, for signs of a struggle, for footprints, but found nothing. For a moment he stood there, torn, looking up at the sharp-angled spiral of the staircase as it ascended into the dark. Taking a breath that crackled through his mask, Nero shook himself and continued down.

Vincent thought about asking who Argento was, what she had been to Nero, but kept his mouth shut. Clearly, she had been someone important. Nero had spoken her name once or twice, usually in conjunction with Azul, but had not offered many details. Asking now, however, seemed inappropriate somehow. Rather than pry into Nero’s Deepground relationships, Vincent followed him ever downward in silence.

Nero edged through into a larger space. A tumble of broken concrete and twisted rebar made up one wall. It had partially collapsed the doorway, but in doing so had compacted the door and pushed it out of its jambs. The thick chunk of steel lay bent and discarded like an overlarge soda can.

A handful of overhead lights flickered to life upon their entrance and Nero shied away from the greenish light. Square foot garden beds stretched away into the darkness, full to bursting with foliage. More plants hung from the ceiling. Clearly, they had found the gardens.

Without so much as a “This way,” Nero headed for a second door that seemed comically plain after the massive vault doors and escape hatches.

“I don’t remember any of this,” Vincent muttered, more to himself than Nero. “But we must’ve come through here at least once, judging by the damage….”

“When Shelke got captured, I tried to rescue her, but that didn't go so well,” Nero spoke up, unexpectedly, voice was flat and cold. “The Restrictors put me in lockdown after that. They sent Azul to deal with the invader first. I wasn't there for the briefing.”

 _Invader._ A better description of Chaos couldn’t be found.

He remembered meeting Shelke, how cold and angry she had been when faced by her sister, Shalua. And Azul...

Vincent’s memory of Azul was vague, an impression of a very large man, broad and heavily-muscled, who fought like a demon and gave no ground. The battle would have been over far sooner, and not in Vincent’s favor, had it not been for Galian’s strength and cunning. Had that happened somewhere nearby…?

“What’s through this next door?” said Vincent. “Is that where the mothers and children are?”

“Kitchens and food storage,” Nero replied. “It’s two or three floors. The Mothers and kids should be under that.”

“You’d better go in first. They don’t know me.” If anyone had seen him, they would only know Chaos or Galian. He didn’t remember women and children, non-combatants, only troops...and Tsviets.

“I’m pretty sure there will be screaming either way,” Nero comment bitterly. “Shelke?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you open the Mother’s Gate, or should we go in the back way?”

“I can open it,” she confirmed. “There’s a lot of junk immediately in front of it, but that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“What about the intercom system? Can you make an announcement? I don’t want to scare them if I can avoid it.”

“Gimme a minute…”

Vincent cringed at the screech and scream of feedback as the loudspeaker system crackled to life.

“Attention,” Shelke’s voice called out, strangely large for its childish tone. “Attention, please. This is Shelke the Transparent. Deepground has surrendered to the WRO, and there will be non-combative personnel arriving to escort you to the surface. I repeat, non-combative personnel arriving to escort you to the surface. Please remain calm and do as instructed. Thank you.”

Surprisingly, Nero smirked behind his mask at Shelke’s attempt at crossing calm reassurance with military demands. It really wasn’t bad, considering she’d probably come up with it on the fly. Rather than traverse more echoing, empty hallways, Nero ducked into the nearest shadow. Vincent tailed him at a respectful distance, following him out into what had once been a huge, vaulted room. The curve of the distant ceiling was just visible behind a veritable landslide of broken masonry. Opposite the three-storey pile of rubbish stood a pair of old fashioned iron doors. Although locked and bolted electronically, the doors themselves were obviously from a much earlier age. Set into heavy brick, and embellished by stone pediments, an ancient sign set into the lintel spelled out a single word in perversely elegant letters: Asylum.

Nero eyed the doors, the pile of ruined building materials, and examined the doors again. Vincent thought he heard him mutter something that sounded distinctly like “screw it” before he disappeared into the shadows again. Vincent hurried after him, but needn’t have worried. Nero had simply stepped around to the other side of the door. He was greeted by an army of women bearing all sorts of ersatz weapons: frying pans, rolling pins, brooms, shovels, garden rakes, pieces of pipe or rebar. One woman even had a fire extinguisher poised and at the ready.

“The hell do you want?” demanded Fire Extinguisher, quaking with fear despite the scowl on her face and defiance in her voice.

Nero held up both hands in surrender. “Not a thing,” he told her honestly. “I’m here to get you out. You’re all going home.”

Bitter laughter rippled among the women, most of whom, now that Vincent had had a chance to examine what was behind the improvised weapons, were some degree of pregnant.

“I don’t believe you,” Fire Extinguisher growled.

“No, I don’t expect you would,” Nero replied calmly. “I’ll show you, instead.”

Vincent watched as Nero turned his back to the enemy, but none of the women rushed to charge forward. Instead they drew a collective step back as Nero set both hands against the heavy iron doors and pushed outward. Pure darkness spread from his fingers, expanding to take up the whole of the doorframe. A frame of black glass rose up, tracing the contours of the original doors to frame the void. The darkness had taken on a sense of solidness that it had not had a moment ago. Crouching down, Nero edged his fingers underneath it and heaved. The darkness folded upwards like an old fashioned garage door, letting in a flood of light and color that made the women scream.

Nero stumbled to one side, shying away from the radiance. Vincent himself had to squint until his eyes adjusted, and then blinked. Nero had opened a passageway directly into the receiving area the WRO had set up for the survivors. No tunnel, no elevator, just a hole in Reality directly connecting one location to another.

“Shelke,” Nero gasped into his earpiece, “unless they’re medical personnel, get all male troops out of there. Females only. If there’s any Deepground in there, I want them visible. I need at least two or three to step through so the Mothers can see that it’s safe. Understood?”

“Roger,” Shelke replied. There was a shuffle of boots on the other side of the door as some troops left and other stepped forward. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Dixon and her partner were the first to step through Nero’s gateway.

“S’alright,” Dixon said, sweeping off her beret and waving it at the mothers in an odd cross of greeting and surrender. “We’re the good guys. C’mon, let’s get outta this hell hole.”

“But the microchips,” a woman holding a push broom protested.

“Mine didn’t go off,” Dixon said with a grin. “We’re still in Midgar. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of that next.”

The Mothers looked back and forth at each other, apparently deciding whether or not Dixon could be trusted. Vincent jumped as Nero’s voice spoke almost directly into his ear.

“We should go,” Nero said flatly, and stepped back into the shadows.

“Should we leave them?” Vincent asked, hurrying after him.

“They’ll be fine,” Nero’s voice was cold and emotionless. “Dixon and the others will have better luck without us there. The Mothers are all afraid of me. They’ll be more likely to believe other women, especially ones they recognize and can see are just fine.”

“Shelke,” the word was sharper than it had been before. “Any other signs of life?”

“There’s a few dozen pinned down in the labs, and more scattered throughout the training area.”

“Are any of the connecting doors from Six to Seven still passable?”

“Yeah, all but two of them are fine.”

“Open them,” Nero commanded. “Extract the kids through there. Let the Mothers deal with their kids if they want. That should make them happy.”

“I was going to,” Shelke replied, sounding almost amused. “You’re going to have to take the scenic route to get over to the labs and barracks. That area was hit hard, and the crater won’t make it any easier.”

“What’s the nearest thing with a camera still running?” Nero snapped.

Shelke did not reply right away, but did not comment on his tone. “There’s a blank patch near the mess hall. I can’t tell from the angle, but it looks like somebody might be trapped, though I’m not picking up a signal from their microchip.”

“I’ll take a look,” Nero told her, voice a bit softer. Evidently he felt a bit guilty for directing his anger at her.

“If you can get over there, part of the simulator is still standing. There’s quite a few troops stuck in there.”

“Roger,” Nero said tiredly, and marched ahead into the darkness.

\--

There wasn’t much to see when they emerged, just another cascade of collapsed brick and cinderblock, with some wood and rebar thrown in to make it interesting. The camera Shelke had been using blinked stoically from one corner. The doors of the Tsviet cafeteria still stood open; one of the doors had fallen from its hinges and lay flat on the concrete floor, window pane shattered. Vincent headed toward them and nearly collided with Nero. On the verge of asking what was wrong, the words died in his throat as he noticed what Nero was staring at.

Nero stood still and silent, body rigid, barely breathing. A hand three times the size of his own stretched out from beneath the pile of rubble. The cairn of concrete and rebar marked the final resting place of a man who had truly been a giant. Nero turned to Vincent, a bitter undernote of accusation darkening the now familiar look of hurt and helplessness.

“We’re the enemy,” he rasped. “I get that. I just…” Nero trailed off, the sentence concluded in an inverted sob as he drew a too-deep breath.

Galian growled, deep inside Vincent’s mind. A scent came to him, old blood, rusty metal...death. Galian remembered. 

“I’m sorry,” Vincent said, knowing as he said it that it was inadequate, worse than useless. “He was an outstanding warrior. I couldn’t defeat him alone. I had to call on Galian...one of my headmates, but far stronger than Mask. He respects strength and skill. When Azul finally fell, Galian mourned his death.”

Nero nodded, acknowledging the words if not the sentiment. What good was remorse to the corpse of his foster father? A sudden stab of jealousy pierced Vincent. The duty of provider and protector had been taken up by this man. Nero had loved him the way he would never- could never- love his blood father. Just as quickly, the envy faded. Azul had given his life to protect his adopted children. It was because of him and Argento that Shelke, Nero, and his siblings had survived as long as they had.

They could not spare a moment to pay their respects- there were others still alive and trapped, awaiting rescue- so Vincent spared a thought for Azul and for his as yet still lost children.

_Gods, let them still be alive…_

They had to be. There was no other way Nero would ever forgive him.

\--

The barracks and training area had been hit hard. Of the dormitory style living quarters, there was virtually nothing left. Perhaps because of its size and its enormous dome, the simulator stood partially intact. There they found a handful of determined young men attempting to shift the rubble by hand.

“Commander Sable!” The boy’s expression was one of shock and- strangely- of happiness. He could not have been more than sixteen or eighteen, he might have been even younger. Jenova and mako tended to accelerate growth, if not maturity. The kid dropped the chunk of concrete he’d been holding and saluted, grinning uncertainly.

“At ease,” Nero told him, returning salute. “Good to see you alive, Sam. How many?”

“Most of C, D, and G companies,” the boy- Sam- began. “One or two from other squads. Been tryin’ to dig our way out, look for survivors. No luck yet. You’re the first we’ve seen.”

“Have you heard anyone?”

Sam shook his head. “No, Sir. Sorry.”

“Very good,” Nero told him. The kid nodded, not smiling necessarily, but radiating happiness. It was strange to see Nero’s body language exhibited in someone else.

“Gather the troops,” Nero instructed. “We’re leaving.”

“Leaving?” Sam echoed, unable to check himself in time.

“Leaving,” Nero repeated. “We’re finished here. We’re going Upstairs.”

The tone of grim resignation made Vincent cringe. Nero had seen the truth of the Surface and had been disappointed. Life above ground had fallen considerably short of his foster father’s stories. It was better than Deepground, but only because one didn’t face mortal injury at every turn, and the food was a lot better.

Sam blinked, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. Neither joyful nor scared, he instead seemed more surprised than anything. However, he did not ask questions, simply flipped a salute and scrambled back down the pile of concrete. Nero and Vincent followed.

Rather than form another portal as he had for the Mothers, Nero inquired of Shelke as to coordinates for the labs. Either he didn’t trust the scientific and medical staff, or he didn’t feel like making multiple doorways. A third thought occurred to Vincent as Nero opened a long black tunnel and led the way through, the troops following two by two like obedient, baby ducklings: the troops and lab staff would be under suspicion. They were not innocent victims like the Mothers and children. They would have to be questioned and held until they could prove they were safe to release.

The scientists and doctors took a bit more convincing to transverse the second gateway that Nero opened directly into the WRO holding cells. Some part of Vincent winced at this. Nero had not been guilty of being anything other than a product of his environment, but they’d locked him up all the same. Hopefully, things would turn out differently for the rescued troops and support staff. The scientists, at least, seemed elated to be above ground again, even if it meant being in a holding cell.

“Anyone else?” Nero asked tiredly.

“I’m detecting two remaining chips but I’m having trouble isolating their position,” Shelke said.

“...can you tell who they are?” Nero asked, a the slightest of trembles to his voice.

A pause. “Serial numbers indicate it’s Weiss and Rosso.”

Nero let out a shuddering breath and he slumped against the wall in relief. “They’re still alive, then.”

“Yes,” Shelke confirmed. Despite everything that had happened, a huge weight seemed to have lifted from Nero’s shoulders.

“However, I can’t get an exact fix on where they are,” Shelke went on.

“Ballpark?” Nero asked.

“Somewhere behind the kitchens?” Shelke guessed. “Honestly it looks like they’re inside the wall. It’s weird.”

“That’s cause they are,” Nero said, abruptly pushing off the wall and standing straight. “I know where that is!”

Nero darted into shadow, and Vincent barely had time to chase after him into the darkness.


	39. Orphan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nero finds his family.

It took Nero a moment to find the necessary sliver of light. For several minutes he ran wildly through the darkness, screeching to a halt to peer at every suggestion of light or movement. He reminded Vincent of a caged animal searching desperately for a way out. At last Nero found the correct puncture in Reality. It wasn’t a sliver, more like a pinprick, and he pulled and tore at the edges until it became big enough to crawl through.

The space was small- just tall enough to stand, just wide enough to lie down. The remains of food packages had been swept into a corner, along with some smaller stones and bits of rubble. A bulky young man with a wild shock of white-blonde hair and dressed only in a pair of dirty white trousers and heavy boots sat propped against the far wall, a woman with startlingly red curls and clad in heavy armor cradled in his arms. This could only be Weiss and Rosso, Nero’s long lost siblings.

“I did this,” Vincent breathed, appalled. Images flashed in his mind, blow after blow, the boy - Weiss - striking with the speed and power of an oncoming train, and Chaos smashing into him. A sweep of vast wings, the sharp crack of bone, the spurt of blood, and the boy was down.

The girl, Rosso, lightning-swift, her short blade scything into his torso, her fingers clawing for the summon in his chest. _“You dare?”_ Chaos rumbled, shoving an incorporeal hand through her flesh. Gripped her heart, beating frantically against his palm. Closed his fist. And pulled. A shriek, a gasp, blood flowing. Her soul fled.

“No, stop!” Vincent shook his head, dislodging the ugly scene. “Why? You let Nero live! Why not these two?”

Eerily, Chaos’s voice came out of Vincent’s mouth, as though he answered his own question:

“ _These were of no consequence. Jenova’s spawn. Tainted._ ” He actually spat, and Vincent tasted blood.

“ _This one,_ ” Chaos used Vincent’s hand to point at Nero, “ _the shadow-mage, Omega’s child. Of all beings, I owe loyalty to my brother Omega. I did as he bade me, eons ago. I preserved his shadow-child. My part in this is done, the rest is yours…and his._ ”

Chaos faded, once more leaving Vincent to deal with his work.

Nero stared at him, naked shock plain on his face. Behind his mask, his jaw worked, but made no sound. Across the room, Weiss looked up at the rough and guttural words, raw terror transfigured into disbelieving joy.

“Nero!” the older boy’s voice was rough and raspy. He tried to get up, but didn’t get very far. In the blackness of the half-collapsed room, it took Vincent’s eyes a moment to adjust to the deeper darkness; to notice what remained of the boy’s left leg. The flesh of his lower leg was bruised black and badly swollen above a wide gash that had been inadequately bandaged with fabric torn from his trouser leg. Angry red streaks ran up from the point of injury. It would not support his weight, especially not with Rosso hanging limp and heavy in his arms.

“No stay there,” Nero urged, hurrying over to his brother. Rather than hug him, Nero dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead against Weiss’.

“I was afraid you were dead,” Nero whispered, smiling behind his mask.

“Not yet,” Weiss replied, grinning, but Vincent could feel the bravado behind the words. A fine sheen of grimy sweat coated his waxen skin, only the flush of fever lending him any color.

“Is Rosso…?” Nero trailed off as he looked down at her inert body. Vincent’s stomach sank as he took in the grayish cast to her skin, the dull and cloudy eyes, and the disquieting black stain trailing down her uniform. Weiss brushed her brilliant red ringlets back with one massive hand.

“I can’t get her to wake up,” he said softly. For a long and horrible moment, both boys stared at their dead sister. 

“I knew you’d come,” Weiss rasped, cradling Rosso close and smiling up at his brother. “I knew you’d find us.”

“I’ll take you to the surface,” Nero promised. “You’ll be okay.”

“Take Rosso first,” Weiss urged, pressing the dead girl into his arms. “Take her somewhere safe. Make sure she gets treatment.”

“I will,” Nero said rather blankly, hefting his sister in his arms.

“You promise?”

Nero nodded. “Yeah. I promise.”

“Good…”

Nero turned to Vincent who shrugged helplessly. Not knowing what else to do, Vincent held out his arms to take the dead girl from Nero. He stopped short, however, as Weiss slumped back against the wall.

“Weiss?” dropping to his knees, Nero laid his sister down as quickly and as gently as he was able. Seizing his brother by the shoulders, he shook him.

“Weiss? _Weiss!_ Weiss, wake up! Say something!”

The older boy’s eyes had gone vacant and glassy; unseeing, staring at nothing.

“Weiss…”

Nero shied back as Weiss slid to the floor. The labored rise and fall of his chest had stilled. Nero knelt in front of him, hands empty, utterly at a loss. Vincent could not move either; frozen in place by the hopelessness, the horror of what had just happened. Mutely, he watched as Nero lay down on the floor between the bodies and curled an arm around each. At first his tears fell softly, welling up and spilling over silently, as if Nero hadn’t even noticed them. After a minute, however, he buried his face in his brother’s shoulder and wept.

Unable to bear it, Vincent knelt next to Nero and his departed siblings. Gingerly, he lay down in the narrow space between Nero and Rosso’s body. Unthinking, he gathered Nero into his arms and held him close. Vincent couldn’t help a brief flicker of surprise as Nero turned and latched onto him, giving in and sobbing uncontrollably. Unable to do anything else, Vincent held him, blinking back his own tears.

How long they lay there Vincent had no idea. It might have been hours, it might have been minutes. Nero cried and cried as only a child forbidden to cry for most of their life could do. A lifetime of tears drowned them both. He cried until he had no tears left to shed, but still the sobs wracked his narrow body. The lurch of throat and diaphragm on top of so much grief made Nero jerk in his arms and scramble to hands and knees. Tearing off his mask, he retched, adding bile to the half-congealed blood coating the floor. Vincent held his hair and made comforting circles on his back as Nero coughed and gagged before replacing his mask.

In the darkness they sat, stricken and still, only the whisper of Vincent’s hand passing over the fabric of Nero’s uniform intruding on the silence. Eventually, Nero slumped against him, exhausted.

“What do I do?” he rasped, respirator crackling. “How do I say goodbye?”

Vincent could not answer at first. Unthinking, he put an arm around Nero’s shoulders. The boy leaned into the touch gladly. The bodies lying on the broken, sticky floor reminded him of a less graceful iteration of the funerals the Turks held, of the one they’d held for him. Swallowing the sudden knot in his throat, Vincent took a deep breath.

“My beloved brother, beloved sister, be at peace.  
You go from life into death, from the earth to the Lifestream;  
Carry with you my love, carry with you the memories of our life together.  
May the gods bring you safely to your rest,  
Be at peace in the arms of Minerva,  
Be at peace in the mercy of Alexander.”

Nero swallowed, the reflex seeming to require every muscle in his body. “The only gods anyone ever talked about down here were the gods of death: Cosmos, Chaos, Alpha, Omega. They said the only mercy in Deepground was the mercy of death.” Nero closed his eyes briefly, the wet salt trails of tears gleaming slightly in the dim light.

“I never… I mean…” Nero pulled in air, an inverted sob. “They looked out for me. We took care of each other. I never thought it was so bad…”

Vincent rubbed his shoulder, hoping the gesture would offer at least some comfort. Leaving the protective circle of Vincent’s arms, Nero went over to his departed siblings and knelt down between them.

“Beloved brother,” he began, voice rough from crying, “Beloved sister...be at peace.”

“You go from life into death,” with one hand, he gently smoothed Weiss’ eyes closed, with the other Rosso’s. “From the earth to the Lifestream.”

“Carry with you my love,” he bent low, rubbing his head against theirs like a cat. “Carry with you the memories of our life together…” He took a deep, shuddering breath, and Vincent thought he was going to be sick again. Edging back, Nero arranged his brother and sister so that they appeared to be holding one another as they slept.

“May the gods bring you safely to your rest,” he whispered, rubbing vainly at his eyes. “Be at peace in the arms of Omega, be at peace in the mercy of Alpha.”

For a long moment Nero just stood there, visibly trembling, trying hard to get a hold of himself. Stepping forward, Vincent stood close enough that their shoulders touched. Rather than simply lean against him, Nero threw his arms around him and hid his face in Vincent’s shoulder. Vincent would have liked Nero to embrace hugging at a happier moment, but here they were. It would have to do.

“I can’t…” Nero’s respirator turned the ragged sob into a discordant wheeze. “I can’t do this alone…”

“You don’t have to,” Vincent told him, holding him close. “I’m right here. You have me, and Veld, and Shelke, and Max, and Shalua. All the friends you’ve made. You’re not alone. You can do this. I’ll help.”

Vincent wasn’t even sure what ‘this’ was, but Nero straightened and nodded.

“I can do this,” he repeated, sounding more desperate than confident. “You’ll help.”

“Yes, I will,” Vincent promised. “Come on. Let’s get the others back to the surface. Okay?”

Casting one last look at his siblings, Nero nodded. “Okay.”


	40. Attempt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero has had enough.  
> Vincent has not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for this one:  
> Mentions of attempted suicide, and suicidal thoughts.  
> If this is not something you need to read, please feel free to skip.  
> Please make sure you're in a good headspace before going forward.  
> Be assured, it does work out in the end.

They left the bodies where they lay, Nero arranging his brother and sister as if cuddled together asleep. It had been Deepground policy to burn their dead. Since neither of them had a fire materia, Nero simply sucked all shadow from the space, collapsing the cavern.

Nero moved as if in a trance, holding the shadow passage open as Vincent led a long trail of survivors directly into the WRO building. Their microchips were deactivated, and then removed, courtesy of Nero. How long he stood and plucked the little bits of plastic and metal out of people’s necks, Vincent had no idea. All he knew was that he had been needed elsewhere, and so he’d had to leave Nero alone for a while. When he returned, Nero was still at it.

There was so much to do, so many people to rescue, to process, and only Nero and himself to lead them through the darkness. Nero and Shelke were the only two besides the team of therapists and trauma staff assembled who really knew how to deal with the survivors. Some of them must have been friends if not family, for they seemed happy to see both Shelke and Nero alive. The sky darkened, lightened, and grew dark again. Vincent barely noticed. It wasn’t until a profoundly sleep-deprived Veld pushed a styrofoam cup of coffee into his hands that Vincent stopped to wonder if it was even the same day?

“You alright, spook?” Veld asked, voice fond yet weary.

“I’ll live,” Vincent replied, sipping gratefully at the coffee. He might not _need_ caffeine anymore, but damn if it didn’t feel good. “I’m more worried about Nero.”

“I take it you didn’t find them.”

“Oh, we found them,” Vincent said, unable to suppress the bitterness.

“Gods of Gaia,” Veld breathed. “The poor kid. Vince, I’m so sorry…”

“It’s worse than you think. He...something blew up. Chaos came out to save him. Nero knows...it was me.”

“Chaos saved him? What are you talking about?”

“I don’t understand it myself,” said Vincent on a shaky breath. “Something about Omega, it doesn’t matter.” 

Vincent reached for Veld’s hand, gripping it so tightly that Veld winced. “I killed them. I destroyed his home, his family, everything important to him. Even the Restrictors never hurt him like this. He’ll never forgive me--”

“Vincent. Where’s Nero now?” 

“I left him with the survivors,” Vincent said. “Last I saw he was still pulling microchips out of people. He and Shelke were taking inventory, so to speak.”

“He still there?”

“I don’t know. I think I should go look.”

“We’ll go together.”

\--

Nero was not where he’d left him. A niggle of worry cramped unpleasantly in Vincent’s stomach, but he forced himself to be calm. Perhaps he’d become tired and gone to rest. Everyone’s microchips had been removed, so there was no reason for him to remain.

“Where’s Nero?” Vincent asked Shelke.

“What? Oh. Vincent,” Shelke said, looking up from her laptop. She looked as frazzled and sleep-deprived as Vincent felt. “He...was just here. He asked me ‘are there any more’ and I told him ‘I don’t think so’. When I looked up, he was gone. I’m guessing he went with the recon team to check for any additional survivors.”

The niggle turned to gnawing. “Do you know for sure?”

Shelke shook her head. “No, sorry, I didn’t hear him say.”

A hand came down on his shoulder, warm and reassuring. Reflexively, Vincent reached to touch it.

“Vince?” Veld asked.

“We need to find him. _Now._ ”

“You think he’d do something desperate?”

Vincent swallowed hard, the motion triggering an involuntary shudder. “I don’t know. But we need to make sure he doesn’t try.”

“What’s the plan?”

“You check the light, I’ll check the darkness.”

It took him half a beat to puzzle out what Vincent meant, but Veld nodded. “Right. I’ll start here, you check the house. Call me if you find him, no matter what. Don’t do anything unless I’m there with you, okay? Promise me.”

Vincent hesitated a moment himself before nodding. “I’ll call. I promise.”

“Okay,” Veld nodded, clapped him on the shoulder before releasing him. “Go.”

Vincent just heard Veld begin to speak, his voice magnified by the loudspeaker, before all sound was lost in the vacuum of the shadows:

“Nero Sable report to the command center. Repeat: Nero Sable please report to the command center immediately.”

The harsh overhead light of noon made for very black, but very small shadows. Indoors, the soft fluorescent lighting only provided a faint, gray suggestion of shade. Vincent was a novice, he needed something blacker, deeper, and much, much larger. With no better options, he flung open the door of the nearest broom closet and stepped inside. He pretended it wasn’t a closet, but the entrance to a hallway that would lead him to Nero. Vague light was evident at the other end, and he hurried toward it-- and found to his embarrassment, that he’d stumbled into the Turk’s locker room. This wasn’t right. Ducking back into the darkness, Vincent tried again. This time he stepped out of the closet of the extra bedroom at home. It was closer, but still not helpful.

Tearing through the house, Vincent disturbed a number of squeakies, sending them scurrying from one shadow to another.

“Nero!” he shouted, dashing through each room. “ _Nero!_ ”

Nero was not in the house. He found himself back in Nero’s bedroom, staring into the yawning square of black of the closet. Vincent tried to think, to focus. Would Nero have remained in Deepground to mourn his siblings, or would he have gone somewhere else? Nero had lost his entire world, the only family he had ever known, and Vincent didn’t know him well enough to guess if he just wanted some time to himself, or if he might do something dire. There was one obvious place he hadn’t checked. Charging into the darkness, he thought of the dim purple glow of the mako fountain, the countless scribbles and drawings on the walls. He’d come to think of the mako cavern as Nero’s room as much as the back bedroom. Surely he’d find him curled up in the darkness, surrounded by a flock of sympathetic squeakies.

The blackness lightened, a dim purple glow illuminating carefully carved and colored images on slick stone walls. Nero’s drawings. He’d reached the mako cavern. Vincent raced forward into the gloom, casting desperately among the shadows for Nero. Aside from his own footsteps and panicked breathing, the cavern was silent. Perhaps Nero wasn’t here after all?

“Nero!” he called into the blackness, his voice echoing loudly off the bare stone. “Nero, where are you?!”

As if in answer, a part of the shadows detached itself. Vincent jumped as a pair of antennae and yellow button eyes popped up out of the darkness. One of the little shadow creatures stood up on its back legs and looked at him, head tilted to one side, a blue ribbon around its neck. Max had put it on him to distinguish him from the rest of the shadow creatures. Nero’s little pet, Ned.

“Where’s Nero?” Vincent demanded. “Can you take me to him?”

Ned blinked at him and scurried off; his blue bow seeming to bob by itself ten inches above the floor. It was the only way to spot him among the shadows. Ned skittered away from the eerie light of the mako pool toward the deepest darkness.

“Wait!” Vincent called, racing to keep up. Ned and his kind might not be large, but they were _fast_. Ned’s bow was retreating at a rapid rate, and it was all Vincent could do to keep up. Panic rose up inside him as claustrophobia descended. No. No, he didn’t have time for this. He had to find Nero, he had to find his son. Forcibly ignoring the void, Vincent tried to concentrate.

He could picture Nero’s ragged black hair and piercing golden eyes. Because of the respirator, he had never seen Nero’s shy smile, but knew it was there. How someone so sweet had lasted so long in Deepground, he had no idea. In a twisted, round-about way, Nero had been homesick for Deepground, for the only life he had ever known. Nero had never known anything different. In his mind, it hadn’t been so bad. There had been people there who cared about him. There might not be anything left of his home, of his family, but that might not stop him from visiting the grave of the life he’d had to leave behind.

Even without Ned’s help, Vincent suddenly knew where he would find him. Automatically he put a hand out and caught the broken edge of the concrete. Ducking under and through the hole, he reached for Galian’s ability to see in the dark. At once the shadows lightened, throwing the formerly invisible rubble and broken architecture into sharp relief.

Ned wove between chunks of concrete and broken furniture toward an indistinct heap lying on the ground. Ned reared up and placed a forepaw against it, chirruping softly.

_Oh gods…_

“Nero!” Vincent fell to his knees. Nero lay face down on the cold cement floor next to the cairn he’d made for his siblings, completely naked. His exposed skin had begun to crack and blister. Torn shreds of his mako suit lay scattered around him, the remains of his mask- smashed and broken- lay out of reach some distance away. Vincent’s usually unbeating heart thundered loudly in his ears as he turned Nero over.

Nero’s face and throat were dark gray, almost black, a froth of bloody foam washing over his chin to pool on the ground. His golden eyes rolled far back in his head, he lay senseless and unbreathing. However, through his translucent skin, Vincent could just make out the dark knot of his heart still slowly beating. He wasn’t dead yet.

Scooping him up in both arms, Vincent darted back into the darkness, his only thought to get Nero into dark mako. He had not taken ten steps before he found himself splashing into the mako pool in Nero’s cave. At once he dropped to his knees, dunking the boy under the surface. Nero sank like a stone and Vincent held his own breath as he pumped his son’s chest.

“C’mon, son,” he whispered urgently. “C’mon… It’s not your time yet. I know you’re lonely, I know you hurt, but this isn’t the answer…”

Abruptly, Nero convulsed and gagged, a plume of black blood trailing from his mouth. Releasing the breath he’d been holding, Vincent sank down in the dark mako and gathered his son onto his lap. It didn’t work very well. Nero was every bit as tall as he was, the boy’s long legs dangling over his own knees. The surface of the mako inches below his chin, Vincent looked down on Nero’s bare face through a filter of deep indigo. It was like looking into a mirror. Nero’s eyes were a bit more narrow and slightly almond-shaped, his features softer and less sharp, otherwise they could have been twins.

“Idiot,” Vincent murmured, cradling Nero’s head against his shoulder. “What were you thinking?”

Except Vincent knew full well what he’d been thinking. Hadn’t he had the same hopeless thoughts himself not so long ago? How many times had he turned his gun on himself, or stepped from Reeve’s balcony? Nero had just wanted to be with the people who had loved him. Vincent could not fault him for that.

The dark mako felt cold and whispery against his skin, but Vincent ignored it. In his arms, Nero stirred, one hand latching onto the fabric of Vincent’s shirt.

“It’s okay,” Vincent soothed, stroking a hand over Nero’s hair. “Well, it isn’t, but it will be. I know it doesn’t feel like it.”

Beneath the surface, Nero stirred and stiffly tilted his head to look up at him, golden eyes rimmed black from crying and a lack of oxygen.

“Why?” he rasped, no sound, but a flute of blood accompanying the word.

“Because I love you,” Vincent told him, wondering at his own words. “Because you’re important to me, and because I’m a selfish bastard who’s not ready to let you go.”

And there was that shy smile, but the expression was so sad it broke Vincent’s heart. Forgetting himself, he gathered Nero close in a careful hug. Nero stiffened briefly, but soon relaxed into the touch. His head lay heavy on Vincent’s shoulder, the painful rasp of his breathing growing softer and softer until it stopped.

“Nero?” Vincent asked, shaking him gently. Nero’s head rolled limply against his shoulder, black blood still trailing from his mouth in a thin ribbon. The labored rise and fall of his chest had stilled. He’d stopped breathing. A spike of panic shot through Vincent, and he hurried to lay Nero out on the fountain floor and began pumping his chest. Again Nero coughed and gagged, vomiting a second plume of blood. Every inch of his long body shuddered, pain clear on his face as he struggled for his next breath.

This wasn’t going to work. Nero needed more help than Vincent could offer. Mako wasn’t any better for cell phones than water, and Vincent glared at the sodden device resentfully. Scratching and chirping at the pool’s edge made him look up. Ned and a veritable army of squeakies sat at the mako’s edge, clearly worried about their master. An idea formed in Vincent’s mind.

“Ned, go fetch Veld,” Vincent ordered. “Tell him Nero’s hurt. Hurry!”

Standing straight, Ned gave an unmistakable salute and vanished into the darkness.

\--

When Ned appeared in the command center and tugged frantically at Veld’s sleeve, Veld’s worry turned to full blown fear. 

“What is it?” 

He knelt down to look into Ned’s yellow eyes. “Is it Nero? Vincent?”

Ned shuffled a bit, then grabbed his ribbon and pulled it up over his chin like a bandit. 

Veld nodded. “Nero. Is he all right?”

Ned shook his head, tugging again at Veld’s shirt. The yellow eyes closed and Ned sagged, going limp. For a moment Veld thought the little creature had passed out, but Ned opened his eyes, and deliberately did the fainting act again.

Oh, shit. “Got it, Ned!” 

Veld rose. “Someone get me Dr. Rui!”

A nurse put in a call to Shalua. Veld paced, waiting. There could only be one meaning to Ned’s actions. Nero was in bad shape. How bad remained to be seen, but if Veld’s Turk instincts were on point, they’d need every bit of dark mako they could scrounge up.

“Somebody start pumping dark mako!” he ordered. “Enough to fill a mako pod and then some. Assemble medical staff. We’re going to have casualties incoming in a minute!”

Well, probably more than a minute, Veld reflected as several people scrambled to do his bidding. Pulling his PHS from the clip on his belt, he dialed Vincent but the call went straight to the voicemail he had still not set up. Shaking his head, Veld put the phone away again.

“Ned, tell Vincent we’re working on it, okay?”

Ned tilted his head and blinked his luminous yellow eyes. Right. Ned was smarter than the average squeaky, but he didn’t speak, and there was only so much one could communicate through body language.

“Will Nero be okay for a couple of minutes?”

Ned considered this and shrugged. It was something.

“Think he can wait until we get the mako pod set up?”

Another shrug. Veld chewed his lip and tried to think what else he could do to somehow speed up the process. Maybe cast Haste on everyone…

“Veld, you wanted to see--” the sentence ended in an abbreviated shriek. Veld turned to see Shalua looking warily at Ned.

“It’s okay, he doesn’t bite,” Veld assured her. Ned made a little bow to Shalua and sat down, watching her expectantly.

“Okay, that was cute if still creepy as hell,” Shalua commented. “You wanted to see me?”

“We have a situation,” Veld informed her. “I have reason to believe Nero’s been injured. Can you commandeer a corner of the medical unit for his treatment?”

“What happened?” she asked. “How bad is he?”

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “Vincent went looking for him. I assume he’s found him, but he’s not answering his phone. For all I know he left it at home on the bedside table again.”

“So how do you know all this?”

“Ned.” Veld nodded at the shadow creature who obligingly waved. “He’s Nero’s pet. Pretty smart for a living shadow. I’ll send him back to Vincent once we’ve got everything ready.”

“Yeah, I heard you gave orders to have the crater pumped for dark mako. Do you think it’s that serious?”

Veld looked at Ned, the creature’s earlier theatrics replaying in his mind. “I hope not, but I’d rather be prepared.”

“Sir!” one of the workmen called. Veld turned in time to see the man salute. “We’ve got the pumps going and a mako pod in place. What else do you need?”

Veld looked to Shalua. “Well, what else?”

“Show me where you’ve set up,” she said. The workman saluted a second time and gestured for her to follow him. Veld invited himself and followed along.

The mako pods were all housed indoors by necessity. A single pod stood more than three-quarters full, dark purple liquid still gushing into it, pumped from a hose.

“Go fetch Vincent, Ned,” Veld instructed the shadow creature waiting at his heels. “Tell him we’re ready.”

\--

As Veld waited for Vincent to arrive with Nero, a volunteer in a white coat and cap, and suspiciously familiar clunky boots, showed up in the doorway.

“What’s wrong with Nero?”

“Max, what the hell are you doing here?” Veld growled.

She held up both hands, eyes wide. “Helping. I haven’t been near the crater, I swear! But they’re sucking dark mako out of there by the tankful and that means Nero needs it. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Yes. Vincent’s bringing him in.”

Her face paled. “How bad is it?”

“I don’t know yet.” He took her arm, walking her back into the hall. “You need to stay out of the way now, Max.”

“Veld, I’m scared for him.” Max reached up, pulling off the surgical cap that had hidden her bright purple hair. “I won’t interfere, just--let me hang around until I know if he’s gonna be okay. Please?”

His first thought was to send her away, so she wouldn’t have to see what he feared was a badly injured Nero. But she wasn’t a child, and she was Nero’s friend. He’d need friends now--friends and family. That was Vincent, and Max, and himself.

He patted her shoulder. “Okay, Max. You can wait out here.”

\--

Vincent tried later, but could not recall how he’d managed to warp both himself and Nero from the mako cavern, to a room in the WRO medical wing. Upon exposure to the air, Nero had begun choking and gagging again, blood spilling from his mouth with every breath. They could not get him into the mako tank fast enough. Even submerged, he continued to convulse and gag, trying and failing to draw breath.

Vincent reached a hand toward him, but felt himself pulled back by strong hands. Doctors and nurses swarmed the tank, blocking his view. The horrible rasping crackle of Nero struggling to breath penetrated his ears like an ice pick. But hearing him, even if he couldn’t see him, was something. Nero might be in pain, but at least he was alive.

“Out, please,” Shalua told him kindly yet firmly, as a nurse ushered both Vincent and Veld toward the door. “He’s in good hands.”

In his head, Vincent knew he should stand back and let the doctors work. He would only get in the way if he stayed. It didn’t make it any easier to let Veld pull him out of the room and down the hall to a waiting area. His sodden leathers dripped dark purple onto the sofa as he sat down. There was only one other person there, a girl with brilliant purple hair, but Vincent barely noticed her.

“You wanna tell me what happened?” Veld asked gently, putting an arm around him.

Vincent nodded. It took him a couple of tries to get words out. 

“He tried to kill himself.”

Veld closed his eyes. “I had a feeling he might.”

“He--” Vincent took a breath, ran his hand over his face. “He ripped his suit to shreds. I’m not even sure how. Smashed his respirator. When I found him, I thought--he…”

“Steady, Vince.” 

“If it hadn’t been for Ned, I never would have found him. I wasted so much time running around in the shadows. If I’d found him sooner, I could have stopped him.”

Veld had been waiting for that. The famous “everything is my fault” Valentine take on the world. 

“ _Stop that._ ”

Vincent looked up, blinking. “I’m sorry. I’m just so afraid he’s going to die.” 

Veld pulled him into a hug. “He won’t. Shalua and her team are doing everything they can. Don’t give up hope yet, Vince. He’s gonna make it.”

He wasn’t nearly as certain as he sounded, but Vincent didn’t have to know that. Time would tell, but for now all they could do was wait.

\--

It took every con and connivance Veld knew, but he managed to drag Vincent down to the locker room long enough to shower and change. If nothing else, he was still soaked in dark mako, not to mention all the other dirt and grime from climbing around Deepground. Although Vincent knew in his head that leaving the waiting area would not sentence Nero to certain death, it was hard to get his heart to agree.

“Just for a few minutes,” Veld promised. “They probably won’t let you in to see him if you’re covered in crud.”

In the end, that was what made Vincent reluctantly abandon his post, leaving a purple stain on the waiting area sofa. Vincent had never gotten ready so fast. As they walked back, Vincent’s hair still wet and dripping, Veld’s phone dinged.

“It’s Shalua. Looks like Nero’s stable.”

“I want to see him,” Vincent said.

“I’ll come with you.”

Vincent was not about to refuse.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the nurse on call said when they knocked on Nero’s door. “Family only.”

“We’re the only family he’s got!” Veld snapped. “The kid was born in Deepground. He doesn’t _have_ any other next of kin!”

The nurse held his ground. “Look, I’m sorry, but hospital policy--”

“ _Let them in!_ ”

Both Veld and Vincent turned to see Shalua hurrying toward them

“For godssake let them in! They’re his sponsors, they’re acting on his behalf!” Elbowing the nurse aside, she led the door open for them.

The WRO medical staff had filled a mako pod with dark purple stagnant mako. The modesty feature had been engaged, the lower half of the transparent tank tastefully frosted over. Nero would not have cared, but it was a small gesture that meant someone did. The horrible dark gray bruises had, if anything, grown darker, painting his throat and shoulders an unpleasant purple-black. Vincent had expected Nero to be barefaced, but a different mask- white, with a long hose attached- had been strapped over his nose and mouth. Eyes closed, he appeared to be asleep. The monitors in the room, however, weren’t keeping a steady rhythm, or at least not a normal one. It took Vincent a moment to work out that every breath drawn made the lines waver and shudder on the many screens. He was in pain. Stepping forward, Vincent lightly rested his flesh hand on the tank wall.

“Please don’t tap on the glass.” Shalua had followed them in. Taking a moment to look at her, it was all too clear to Veld that she had not slept. Her red hair had mostly escaped her neat bun, strands hanging loose around her face and neck. She’d changed into a fresh lab coat and scrubs, but her hands were still stained purple from the dark mako.

“How is he?” Vincent asked, looking at her over his shoulder. He had planned to glance at her, to briefly make eye contact just to be polite, but the look on her face held him frozen in place.

Shalua took a deep breath. “He’s...stabilized,” she began. “We had to get creative with him. We must have cast a dozen Cure spells, but it didn’t do anything. I’m guessing it has something to do with his dark mako alignment. We tried every analgesic we’ve got, but nothing seems to work. It’s probably the Jenova in his system, many SOLDIERs had the same problem. Right now, he’s in mako stasis. It isn’t easy to do that to a SOLDIER, but low-grade mako poisoning is better than being in pain. Like a medically-induced coma, it will allow him to rest comfortably.”

“Go on,” Veld prompted gently.

“His skin is healing, and we're keeping him breathing. That’s a modified CPAP machine,” she explained, gesturing at the white plastic mask. “He’s scorched the inside of his lungs and throat, sort of like someone who had breathed in super-heated air in a house fire. Not only has he damaged the lining of his throat and lungs, but his inhale-exhale reflex isn’t engaging. That’s why we had to resort to forced air- er, mako- to keep him breathing.”

“But he’ll get better,” Vincent said. It was not a question. Shalua swallowed hard, and Vincent felt his stomach drop as he realized she was struggling to hold back tears.

“The mako will help,” she began, “but the damage is extensive.” She paused, steeled herself. “Even with the ventilator, he’s not drawing enough oxygen to fully function or to heal. At best, all this is just buying him time.”

Her jaw worked, but she couldn’t seem to force herself to say what they all feared. Taking a shuddering breath, Shalua tried to shove the professional mask into place, to become a doctor, and not a trusted friend.

“Vincent I’m so sorry. There’s nothing else we can do.”

“No,” Vincent insisted, hearing his voice break. “ _No._ ”

“You do have time to say goodbye,” she said by way of consolation. “We can keep him in there, but he won’t improve. He’ll slowly get worse. Because he can’t draw enough oxygen, his brain will deteriorate. There will come a time when he won’t recognize you. His body will struggle on for a while longer, but in the end, it won’t be able to keep pace with the damage. The Jenova in his system will eventually turn on him and when it does...” She took a deep breath, blinked, single eye spilling over unnoticed. “I truly wish I had better news. I’m so, so sorry…”

He could not even be angry with her. The impossibility of her words vibrated through him like a rung bell, every molecule of his being refusing the information with everything he had. It was too cruel. Nero was still just a kid, barely out of his teens. He had his whole life ahead of him. It wasn’t fair to discover his sweet, kind, brave boy only to lose him. He couldn’t be responsible for the death of a second son. Sephiroth had died because Vincent had been unable to step forward, to say what needed to be a said, to do what needed to be done.

It wasn’t fair. Why should he live on and on while his children died? By all rights he should have bled to death back in Nibelheim. If not for Lucrecia and Chaos…

_Chaos._

“Give him Chaos.”

“ _What?_ ” Veld and Shalua asked, beautifully harmonized.

“Give Chaos to Nero,” Vincent said urgently. “It's kept me alive- sort of- all this time. Nero needs it more. He’s just a kid. He should be able to live life and grow old. I’m ready, I don’t mind. Please, give it to him.”

“Vince…” Veld began, stepping forward to lay a hand on his arm.

“Are you sure?” Shalua asked, uncertain.

“Schedule the operating room, or I will tear it out myself.”

“Actually…”

All of them turned. Max stood awkwardly in the doorway, salt streaks glistening on her cheeks.

“I think I know where another summon materia is.”

“Where?” Vincent demanded.

“Down in his mako pool,” Max explained. “It’s in one of the side tunnels pretty far down.”

“Do you think you could find it again?”

“Yes,” Max nodded.

Without another word, Vincent grabbed her by the wrist and marched into the nearest shadow, dragging her behind him. Before long he was sloshing into the shallow depths of the mako pool, Max stumbling along behind him.

“Where’s the materia?” Vincent asked.

Not bothering to strip, Max waded in a bit further and plunged under the surface. She’d only been down to the tunnel two or three times. The depths were dark and eerie without Nero beside her. She tried to remember the geography of the mako fountain; the features they’d passed. A sparkle caught her eye, and she recognized the glint of gold and silver. The shelf full of votive offerings. Good. Next, several stalagmites that bore a suspicious resemblance to statues loomed in the dim depths. They were on the right track. A number of openings appeared in the near wall, but Max ignored them looking for… There! The materia-encased remains of a broken staircase. The entrance to the tunnel had been adorned by hieroglyphs and ciphers, just as this one was. A lighter purple glow at the end of the tunnel, further confirmed her memories. At the end of the winding passage sat an enormous pile of crystal facets: a huge materia.

Vincent stared at the materia formation long and hard. Carefully, he reached and laid his flesh hand against the surface. The crystal blinked and flickered. Inside Vincent’s head, a strange voice echoed:

_Chaos? Is that you, my brother?_

Vincent could not immediately think of a good response to that.

 _It has been many eons,_ the voice continued. _Why do you seek my aid?_

 _My son,_ Vincent thought back desperately. _He’s dying. Please, will you help my son?_

 _A new initiate,_ the voice mused. _So be it. Too long have I slumbered. Let a new high priest be born._

Vincent hadn’t any idea what that meant, but he’d take it. A blinding light flashed, brighter than day, illuminating the cavern in radiance. Both Vincent and Max shut their eyes to the brilliance. Half a breath later, darkness descended, and Vincent felt the hard, smooth surface of a round stone in his hand. Grabbing Max with his free hand, he willed the darkness around them to obey.

He stumbled slightly as the lights came up, Max tumbling into him a moment later. Gasps and shrieks went up on every side, but Vincent ignored the terrified nurses.

“Here,” he said, shoving the materia into Shalua’s hands. “Use this.”

Shalua took the small red stone. “Where did you…?” she began, and then took in the pair of them dripping dark mako all over the floor. “Never mind. Thank you.”

“Save him,” Vincent charged her, before turning and sloshing out the door and into the hall, Max right behind.

\--

Vincent let Veld strong-arm him into going home for a few hours. He was tired, and heartsick, and once again soaked in mako. If nothing else, he needed another shower and change of clothes. They saw Max safely back to her apartment for similar reasons before heading home themselves.

Clean and dry again, Vincent paced while Veld shaved. As soon as Veld walked out of the bathroom, Vincent turned to head for the door, intending to go straight back to the hospital.  
“Vince, wait.” Veld caught him by the elbow. “Come sit down for a minute. We need to talk.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“Nope. Come on. Take a moment to catch your breath, such as it is.” Veld steered him into the kitchen, gently pushing him into a chair, and set about making tea. 

When they each had a steaming mug in front of them, Veld said, “We have some decisions to make, Vincent.”

Vincent blinked. “What do you mean?”

“About Nero. In case this doesn’t fix everything.”

“But--” Vincent began, and stopped, remembering Shalua’s words. Extensive damage, she’d said. Severe burns to Nero’s lungs and throat. Trouble breathing, lack of oxygen...oh gods, what had it done to his brain? Even if his lungs healed, would there be brain damage? Would he still...be Nero?

“Okay.” Vincent swallowed the lump in his throat and chased it down with a gulp of chamomile tea. “I get it…”

He couldn’t continue. Veld’s hand slid over and covered Vincent’s.

“I’m sorry,” said Veld. “I hate to bring this up, but better now than later. You know I went through this with Felicia. It hurts like hell, but you need to face it.”

“I’m not pulling the plug!” Vincent hissed. “He gets every chance we can give him. Don’t ask me to give up on him, Veld. I can’t!”

“I understand, Vince. But it...doesn’t look good. We need to have some idea of what we’re going to do in the worst case.”

Meaning, of course, if the summon materia couldn’t reverse the damage to Nero’s brain and internal organs. How long would they let the mako and the machines keep his heart beating and his blood pumping? How long would they keep a shell alive if the spirit and intelligence were gone, or his brain functions severely diminished?

Vincent shook his head, denying the ugly images. “No. No. It’s not going to be that way! He’s going to be all right! He has to be. I’m not going to lose another son!”

“Vincent…”

“No! Don’t say it, you don’t know--!” 

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Veld went still, his silence a sharper rebuke than anything he could have said. Vincent winced. Grief and exhaustion were making him stupid. 

“Veld, I’m sorry.” He turned his hand, gripping Veld’s fingers in his own. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, spook.” Veld gave him a sad, tired smile. “It’s the hardest thing any parent can face, whether you’ve known your child for a lifetime or just for a few weeks. You’re entitled to be angry.”

“But I’m not entitled to hurt you. I just...I don’t know what to do.”

“What do you think he would want?”

“How can I know?” Vincent let go of Veld’s hand, and rose, moving to the kitchen window to stare out at the night sky. “I don’t even feel I have the right to decide for him. It should be his choice, not mine.” 

He glanced at Veld. “That choice was taken away from me. I won’t do that to my son.”

“Fair enough, but he may never regain consciousness. He might not be able to make the decision himself.”

“I know. So we’ll have to wait and see what happens. I want him to know we’re there for him, if he...chooses to stay. And if…” Vincent paused, hating what he was about to say. “If the worst happens, if we know beyond a doubt that he’s never going to get better, then...I’ll do what I have to do. If he...ends up brain-dead, I won’t let him float in a tank until his body gives out.”

“All right then.” Veld came to stand behind him, sliding his arms around Vincent. “Come on, we’ll head back and see how it’s going.”

“There’s something I need to do first,” Vincent said. “I’ll catch up to you.”

\--- 

Alone, Vincent opened the double doors of the small shrine, setting the pale blue porcelain cup out first. Then the incense holder, then the glass votive. He lit three sticks of incense from the candle flame, brought a small dish of rice, and filled the cup with sake from a new bottle.

Sinking to his knees, he cleared his mind. It wasn’t easy. Every fear he’d ever had for Nero reared up like a tsunami, pulling him under. Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, Hellmasker hissed curses at him. Galian and Gigas grumbled and moaned. Body shaking, eyes filled with tears, Vincent bowed low, his forehead touching the carpet.

“Gods of Gaia, be with me now,” he breathed. “Ancestors of my house, mothers, fathers, grandmothers, grandfathers. Hear me.”

Words never came easily to him. There was so much he wanted, needed, to say, and yet words were inadequate. How did one ask for the world?

“Gods of Gaia…my son is dying. Take from me what you will, but please, give him life. Make him well. Let him live. I deserve nothing, but Nero…I’ll do whatever you ask, if you only let him live and be healed. I ask this in love and humility. Please, give Nero life and health. So let it be.”

There was no more to be said. His headmates had settled down, and some of the tension had drained from his body. He would not give up hope. Stranger and more wonderful things had happened on Gaia.

What was one more miracle?


	41. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now it's just a matter of time.

For some reason, Veld had not expected to find Nero alone and unattended. Shalua was elsewhere, Vincent some few minutes behind Veld, and Nero… Nero floated in the dark mako, senseless as he had not been since Vincent had found him near death in the ruins of Deepground. Asleep or comatose, it was hard to tell which. Veld let the door close behind him, shutting out the chatter and clatter of busy hospital halls. Only the gentle bubbling of the mako, the soft hissing of Nero’s mask, and the steady, almost subliminal beeping of monitors remained. 

Seeing the boy like this, without distractions, struck Veld like a bullet to the heart. Suspended in mako like a specimen preserved for study, Nero’s body seemed fragile, his translucent skin washed with dusky purple shadows. Gods, when had he gotten so thin? The white curves and angles of ribs and hip-bones stood out in sharp relief. Nutrients delivered by IV did nothing for muscle tone; he looked half-starved. 

He was breathing, but hardly more than Vincent did in stasis; his chest barely moved. Veld’s own breath caught for a long, gut-twisting moment, until he saw the thin line of bubbles escaping Nero’s respirator, and knew he still lived.

Veld’s breath burst out of him on a stream of searing curses. Damn all the gods, he’d seen this too many times already - Felicia, Vincent, the dead at Kalm - how many times more did he have to face it? Why such waste of youth and potential, while he, an old man with a black heart and bloodied hands, lived on?

If there were any gods left in the world, they held no promises for him, no miracles for Nero - or for Vincent. To be human was to be weak, powerless, weaponless against the dark - and there was no darkness greater than despair and grief. Nero had to _want_ to live, and for all Vincent’s love, or Shalua’s skill, that could not be forced.

Veld’s eyes burned, blurred, helpless fury shaking him from the inside out, until gradually, the storm passed, and he blinked away the sting of tears. 

Truth was, he’d grown fond of the kid. Vincent’s nonsense, calling him Veld’s stepson, had wound its way into his heart, left him open to this crippling rage. 'Grandfather' might be a better role, supposing that Nero lived. Veld would not object, though he’d never admit it aloud.

Foolish old man. Suppose Nero woke while he stood here swearing and scowling? The poor kid was already afraid of him. Vincent would kill him, or Shalua would have him committed. Veld shook his head, muttering, turning his anger inward where it wouldn’t hurt anyone else. He turned, going to the door, and glanced back once at Nero.

“Get well, kid,” he said, voice like sandpaper. “That’s an order.” 

\--

“He’s hanging on,” Shalua told Vincent and Veld when they both stood in Nero’s room. Max was there as well, hovering by the door, sullenly waiting to be admitted and giving the nurses dirty looks.

“She can see him,” Vincent allowed. “Give her a wristband or a key card or something. Shelke too, if she wants.” Nero didn’t have much family left, but he did have some informal relatives still standing. It was important he know there were people on the surface who cared about him every bit as much as his Deepground family.

Shalua quirked a tired smile at that. “I’ll make sure the staff knows.”

“Any change?” Vincent asked urgently.

She shook her head. “Not yet. That’s actually not a bad thing. The materia...well, it’s hard to tell, really. All bets are off when you infuse someone with a guardian spirit. He seems...quieter since receiving it. As if he were asleep instead of unconscious.”

Vincent nodded, accepting this as good news.

“It’s going to take time,” Shalua warned him. “Days...weeks...I honestly have no idea. We’ll alert you immediately if there’s the slightest change.”

“You’re gonna have to actually start using that PHS,” Veld teased, gently poking him in the ribs. Despite himself, Vincent smiled a little.

\--

In the end it was Veld who set up the voice mail for Vincent’s PHS. Vincent only had the vaguest idea as to how to use the thing outside of its function as a telephone. He knew how to read texts, but sending them was still a work in progress. He’d have to get better at it if he was going to send Veld status updates on Nero.

“Stay with your son,” Veld told him, as if Vincent was going to do anything else. “Reeve will understand.”

“Thank you,” Vincent told him. Not for allowing him to stay- rabid behemoths could not have moved him- but for understanding that his place was with his son.

He did not have to ask for a chair or a cot, both articles of furniture simply appeared. A second chair materialized when Max stopped by after classes. After some persuading, Vincent consented to go home for a few hours while Max sat with Nero and did her homework. Vincent returned to find her reading text books to him.

Deciding Max might be onto something, Vincent began to read to Nero as well. Shalua approved of this, stating that even if Nero did not see them, he could hear their voices and know he was surrounded by people who loved him. When Vincent’s voice began to dry up, Veld brought a stack of audio books. Max hooked her phone to a small set of speakers and drove Vincent crazy with an assortment of playlists. He forgave her when she began interspersing her noise with music from his day. At least Nero wouldn’t be subjected to nothing but rubbish.

Ned also took up vigil, frequently curling up inside the tank itself. Shalua had been distressed that this might cause the mako pod to malfunction, or that it might affect Nero’s recovery. No one could stop Ned from phasing through the glass, and as he left the various wires and tubes alone, he came and went as he pleased.

\--

All the while that Nero slept in his mako pod, someone kept watch over him. Max switched off with Vincent, Veld came in when he could. Shalua and an endless parade of mako specialists and doctors made regular checks on his condition. 

Max stayed out of their way, never going farther than the restroom or the hospital coffee shop. Someone had brought in a cot for Vincent, a kind but unnecessary gesture; he rarely slept, so Max caught a nap now and then. The bubbling of the pod and the steady beep-beep-beep of monitors created a soothing white noise, buffering the constant hum of activity in the halls outside of Nero’s room.

It was easy enough to keep up with classes through real-time cam from the classroom, or recorded lectures, and reading her textbooks aloud to Nero helped Max stay awake and study at the same time. When studying grew dull, she described the weather and current events, or read him the get-well messages from the SOLDIERs, Turks and other WRO personnel. 

Vincent prowled in and out, standing watch overnight and closely observing everything the medical team did. Veld would come in the evenings, persuade Vincent to sit for a while or go for coffee, calming Vincent with his presence and his level, practical manner. Max thought of it as “helping Vincent worry,” but she kept that to herself. 

She wasn’t worried. Nero would wake when he was ready. 

For all the concern about his physical condition, there was little talk about his emotional state. He was grieving; anyone could see it. His eyes were closed, but Max could see their movement beneath lids translucent-gray in a well of shadow; deep lines scored his face, crinkling his brow and drawing his mouth into a tight line. Now and then a tear slid down his cheek, and dissolved into the indigo wash of dark mako.

Whatever he dreamed, it hurt. Trying to kill himself had not ended his pain, nor had the medical treatment, however expert. Physically, he improved a little each day, but implanting the summon could not take away sorrow or loneliness. Max mourned for his lost family in her own way, wishing she’d known Rosso and Weiss, Azul and Argento. Someday, when Nero had regained his strength, and the need to talk became too urgent to ignore, he would tell her about them. Until then, she’d be his friend, as Vincent and Veld were his new family.

He was an odd creature, but sweet and kind. Deadly in battle, yet innocent in the ways of ordinary life outside of Deepground. An eager, yet gentle lover, and so literal-minded that most jokes went right over his head. In short, adorable. 

She had so many things to share with him: Vintage movies, ice cream, Beggar’s Night (despite being a bit too old for it). Trade shows at the Armory. The WRO Yule party, street festivals, bonfires. Motorcycle rides. Watching the stars on a clear summer night.

What had he done for fun in Deepground? Had he ever even been allowed to have fun, to just relax and do nothing? Had he ever been let loose to just make a mess and enjoy himself, to explore a new place, or create something just because? She didn’t think so. 

He had a lot of things to learn, and a lot of carefree childhood to catch up on, had Nero Sable. Max watched him, his body buoyed up by mako, his spirit off wandering among sad memories. 

“Wake soon,” she told him. “There’s a whole world out here, waiting just for you.”


	42. Other Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vincent discovers the Valentine family tree has more surviving branches than he thought.

No one had to suggest it. They all simply agreed that Nero would not be left alone, even if he wasn’t aware of their presence. A second Meteor could not have removed Vincent from Nero’s room. Only Veld’s kind cajoling could get him to reluctantly return home to bathe and change clothes, and if Veld was lucky, to eat. In the meantime, Max or Shelke, or even Shalua would watch over him. When Nero’s cadre heard that their teammate was injured, they too came to assist in the vigil. Even Tseng himself came and kept an eye on his newest recruit for a few hours.

“I hadn’t heard anything, so I came to see for myself. I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Tseng!” Veld stood and shook his successor’s hand.

“How is he?”

Unable to suppress a heavy sigh, Veld cast a glance at Nero, drifting silent in the tank. Vincent sat staring at him forlornly. If wishes were miracles… Well, they’d probably have adjoining lots with a single white picket fence to ring both lawns. Sarah would still be alive, Lu and Vince together, and Elfe could have played with Sephiroth and Nero.

“Which one?” Veld asked.

Tseng offered him a sympathetic look.

“Shalua can’t give us a solid answer. There’s almost no precedent for this sort of thing, and the one case study we do have…” Veld’s gaze briefly flicked to Vincent. “There’s no telling if he’ll be able to shrug this off like nothing ever happened, or if he’ll be permanently incapacitated in some way. Right now...we’re just hoping he wakes up. If you can’t hold his spot, I understand.”

Veld wasn’t even sure Nero would want it. With only Shelke remaining, Nero had no reason to attempt to establish a life above ground. According to Dixon, there were a number of troops who weren’t adjusting well. Once awake- because he would wake up, dammit- maybe Nero would take them back to the shadows, establish his own much kinder colony of misfits.

“This is as much my fault as it is yours,” Tseng said quietly. “Perhaps more.”

Veld looked at him sharply.

“I should have seen that he was unhappy, noticed that something was off,” Tseng explained. “He was my responsibility. A Turk in training if not yet a full agent. He’s one of my kids Veld, and I let him down.”

“Tseng,” Veld said, resting a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, “you had no reason to expect he’d do something like this. None of us speak Deepground except Shelke, and she can’t serve as translator twenty-four-seven. You did the best you could with him. No one is blaming you.”

Although Tseng nodded, Veld got the distinct impression that the gesture was more to make his old commander happy than because Tseng believed it himself.

“I hate to lose good men,” was all he said in response. “Please keep me updated? Anything you choose to share would be greatly appreciated.”

Veld smiled. “I will. Don’t worry, you’ll have him back in ranks again before you know it.”

“If he doesn’t, or can’t return, that’s fine,” Tseng shrugged. “I just want to see him well.”

Veld nodded, touched. “We all do.”

\--

According to Shalua, Nero’s body had accepted the Omega summon materia. He was still dependent on the CPAP machine to force dark mako in and out of his lungs, but he was burning through the SOLDIER grade nutrient drip at an impressive rate, which suggested healing. However, he had yet to wake up. Shalua seemed optimistic, but Vincent was having a harder time holding onto hope.

“If you’ve got a minute, I’d like to show you something.”

Vincent looked up to see Shalua dressed in her rounds attire of khakis and blouse under her white coat, a thick manila folder in one hand.

“What?” Vincent asked her. Without invitation, she sat down next to him and presented the folder to him. Opening it, the first page that greeted him was a paper divided in half down the middle, a long double row of dots on either side arranged in a pattern that was almost, but not quite the same. The words “88% match” were written at the top in Shalua’s somewhat scribbly handwriting. Vincent felt his throat constrict and his chest tighten as realization dawned.

“His bloodwork post-materia was totally different from what I had on file for him originally. It looks as if Omega cleared the Jenova from his system. When I ran his DNA against your sample a second time…” Shalua offered him a rueful little smile. “Congratulations, it’s a boy.”

Dropping the folder, Vincent turned and stooped to kiss her full on the lips. “Thank you.”

Shalua just stood there, too thunderstruck to respond, before eventually managing a bewildered “You’re welcome.”

It took them both a minute to realize there were now papers scattered all over the floor. Perhaps to cover her embarrassment, Shalua dropped to her knees and began to collect them.

“I did a little extra digging while running Nero’s DNA test,” she explained as Vincent knelt down to help her. “With the Jenova, it wasn’t hard to confirm you as his father. His mother was more difficult.”

Vincent eyed the papers in his hands as if they might explain this, but the medical jargon meant little to him. Instead, he held his tongue as Shalua explained.

“Deepground wasn’t quite so scary when Nero and his siblings were born. Their surrogates were willing volunteers, and the sperm and eggs were all taken from the Shinra tissue bank.”

“How the hell did my- er- ‘tissue’ even get in there?” Vincent demanded. “I think I would have remembered _that_.”

“Needles?” Shalua suggested.

Vincent opened his mouth to argue, thought better, and closed it again. “Most likely.”

“I had to take the scenic route in order to confirm you on paper,” she went on, slotting papers back into the folder. “Honestly, if I hadn’t had the sample on file for you, I’m not sure I could have done it. Nero’s mother, or mothers, also involved a long and circuitous paper trail.”

“Really?” Vincent asked, intrigued. “Who are they? Are either of them alive?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Shalua admitted. Leaning, she turned the page to display a grainy color photograph. A woman with short, curly dark hair and olive skin smiled back at him.

“Maeve Fearn was a willing volunteer surrogate who wanted a baby, but not a husband,” Shalua began. “At the time, the plan was to have the surrogates nurse and care for their children as they grew up. Both Rosso and Weiss’ mothers died during the delivery, and Maeve...disappeared. No sooner had she delivered, than she vanished into shadow. To this day, no one knows what became of her. As a result, all three were brought up by nurses and tutors. Then the Restrictors took over and it all went sharply downhill after that.”

“You wonder if she hadn’t been lost to the shadows, what sort of difference she would have made?” Vincent mused. Shalua offered a noncommittal hum. Reaching, she turned the page again.

“Nero’s biological mother was listed as subject 14156KR25, she donated two ova that were eventually marked as unclaimed after a pilot program she had participated in was shut down. Her given name was Kirua Roi. She’s actually a footnote in the SOLDIER handbook as the only survivor of an attempt at a cadre of female SOLDIERs.”

“Female SOLDIERs?” Vincent echoed. “I thought women couldn’t tolerate Jenova?”

“With very few exceptions, they can’t,” Shalua confirmed. “Kirua and her cadre proved that adult women and Jenova don’t mix. She’s the only known survivor of a full blown case of what we know now was Geostigma, but that’s not to say she came out of it without a scar. She was in a coma for over a week. When she woke up, she had no idea who or where she was. Her mental capacity had been severely diminished. She was put in the same long-term care ward as the four survivors of the Lost Unit. From there...her serial number disappears. It doesn’t pop up again until several years later.”

“This is her,” Shalua leaned and pointed at the serial number, the digits highlighted to visually separate them from a vast list of densely printed numbers. “This marks her as support staff in the machine shop. She was a machinist and weaponsmith. I’m guessing she must have recovered somewhat, or she never would have been given such a highly-skilled job. However, she might have also been incapacitated to some degree, or it’s likely she would have been put on the front lines and not kept as a non-combative reserve.

“Later on, she’s listed as head of that division, and she’s also mentioned as one of the training coordinators. I don’t know what sort of care she was receiving, but it’s clear she must have improved dramatically since she was first put in the long-term care unit. What really got me was this. Look here.”

Vincent followed the line of Shalua’s pointing finger and blinked. “Rank: Tsviet. Color: Silver. She was a colored Tsviet like Nero and his family.”

Shalua nodded. “I can’t confirm it, but I wonder if Kura Roi and Argento the Silver aren’t the same person?”

“Is this her?” Vincent asked, pulling out a badly faded military mugshot. The tape measure stapled to the wall behind her indicated a height of just barely 5’3”. She had been petite. She’d had dark hair and almond-shaped eyes- clearly she had some Wutaian blood in her- but those eyes were blue, not brown. He could see the softer lines of Nero’s face in hers. It was comforting in a way to know that Nero’s mother had been pretty.

“Yeah, that’s her about two years before Nero was born,” Shalua said, looking at the photograph herself. “I’d like to show it to Nero once he wakes up. He might be able to confirm if she’s really Argento or not.”

“We never found her body,” Vincent said quietly, replacing the photo and closing the folder. “All we recovered was a badly dented helmet that Nero said was hers.”

“So it’s unlikely she survived.”

“Shelke seemed to think that if anyone could have escaped intact, it would have been Argento. Still, I hate to get his hopes up. Even if she’s alive, I have no idea where to even begin to find her.”

Shalua nodded, clearly thinking.

“Do you have copies of these?” Vincent asked.

Shalua blinked, returning to earth. “Sorry. Copies?”

“Copies of the photos,” Vincent clarified. “I’d like to take them with me, if possible.”

“This is Nero’s story,” Shalua said, pushing the folder more firmly into his hands. “Keep it safe for him.”

Vincent nodded. “Thank you.”

\--

It had never been easy for Vincent and Nero to communicate. Neither were men of many words, and likewise were not terribly effective at expressing what was on their minds, much less what was in their hearts. Some might attribute that to Vincent being a product of his time; men of his generation were a stoic lot who kept calm and pushed through. Vincent let the assumption stand. It was a lot better than the truth: both his son and himself were emotionally crippled, socially inept introverts for whom stringing three words together was a major achievement. Despite all that, Vincent desperately wanted to get to know his son. However, his son was unavailable for comment.

Nero drifted silently in the mako tank, unconscious. The only noise was the soft hiss and ripple of bubbles as the CPAP mask forced oxygen and dark mako into and out of his lungs. Since Nero couldn’t talk to him- and even if he could, the conversation was likely to be awkward at best- Vincent did the next best thing.

The thick folder full of papers and photographs was too much to balance on his knees, so he sat down on the unoccupied cot and opened the folder next to him. Given that Nero and his siblings had been specifically plotted and planned months before even their conception, Vincent had to dig through a lot of preliminary material before he found what he was looking for.

A date: February twelfth followed by the year. It was marked as the day Nero had been born. Ironically, the child of shadow had been born at dawn: 5:29am. It was now closer to 5:29pm, but the date was correct. Vincent looked up at the sleeping boy- well, man- in the tank. Nero had been twenty-one for twelve hours and he’d had no idea.

Joy and sorrow had been having the most violent of wrestling matches in Vincent’s gut and heart ever since Nero had wandered unannounced and unexpected into his life. Nero had not known his own birthday, and had had only a rough idea of how old he was. Apparently birthdays were one more thing that Deepground had deemed unnecessary. 

Legal age for damn near everything except enlistment had been much younger in Vincent’s day. Now it ran the gamut from army enlistment at fifteen thanks to the war in Wutai, marriage at eighteen, to drinking at twenty-one. Vincent wasn’t sure why a kid who was apparently mature enough to fire a gun or start a family couldn’t have a drink, but that was Midgar logic for you. Then again, Nero had been an adult for a long time regardless of his age.

Vincent sat silent, everything and nothing floating through his mind as he stared at the tank. Veld found him like that, an assortment of Polaroids and snapshots clutched in both hands. Without a word, Veld sat down next to him and put his arm around him. Vincent leaned against him gladly, tilting his head so that his cheek rested on Veld’s hair.

“How’s he doing?” Veld asked, though the tone suggested Vincent could apply the inquiry to himself if he liked.

“It’s his birthday today,” Vincent responded, holding up the document he’d found. “He’s twenty-one.”

Veld took the paper from him and contemplated it for a moment. What did one say to that?

“I missed all those years,” said Vincent, staring at the clinical piece of paper. “His first steps, first words, all the milestones. Deepground probably didn’t even bother to note any of those things. He was just an experiment to them.”

He looked at Veld. “How do I make up for that? For not being there. For the way they treated him.”

Veld had no answer for that, not in words, anyway. Instead, he rubbed Vincent’s shoulder with one hand, wishing he had something profound and comforting to say. All he could do was shake his head.

“I wish I knew,” he said quietly. “I was away so much when Felicia was little, and then she was gone… I wasn’t there for her either.”

“I didn’t mean…” Vincent began.

“I know, spook,” Veld said, kissing his cheek. There was no one to see, and Vincent needed the extra bit of affection. “Doubt either of us will ever win Father of the Year, but I think Nero knows that he’s important to you. Hell, to us. Gotten quite the soft spot for him myself.”

“Does he?” Vincent pressed, an edge of desperation to his voice. “We both know he doesn’t really grasp the concept of relationships up here. Hell, he thought I wanted to have sex with him for the first few weeks just because of one stupid hug!”

“He knows better now,” was all Veld could come up with. “He knows there’s a difference between what you and I have together, and what exists among all three of us. I think he knows somewhere in the back of his head that he’s important and valued, and not just as a weapon. Maybe he doesn’t really understand all the variations of love and friendship that exist, but he’s got the basics now.”

Vincent shook his head. Caught in the paralyzing grip of his own guilt, no reason or logic no matter how sound could pull him out of the emotional spiral. There were times when all Veld could do was wait for him to crash, and it looked as if this was one of them.

“Does it matter?” Vincent pushed the folder aside and stood. “He doesn’t want to live without his real family. That’s what they were. I’m just where half his DNA came from. Azul was his _real_ father.”

His voice broke. “He’d rather die and be with them again, than stay here with us...with _me._ ”

Veld could play dirty, hit below the belt, but now did not seem like the time to bring up Vincent’s own desperate moments. There had been times when Veld had wanted Vincent to experience the terror, the worry that Vincent had put him through. Now, however, all he wanted to do was wipe Vincent’s anxieties away.

“He’s had a lot to deal with,” Veld said instead. “He’d been building toward this since he arrived. His siblings dying pushed him over the edge. It wasn’t because he hates you, Vin. It was because...it was just too much.”

Maybe Vincent would pick up on the gentle chastisement in his words, maybe he wouldn’t. It was hard to know what to say. Veld’s heart urged him to absolve Vincent of all guilt, to tell him none of this was his fault, except that wasn’t strictly true. Chaos had dealt the final blow to Nero’s hopes and driven him to try to regain the only source of love and comfort he had ever known by any means necessary. Gods knew what Veld would have done if he’d been left in Deepground to watch from the inside as it mutated from hospital to prison camp.

“I’m guilty too. I should have noticed.”

“At least he tolerates you,” Vincent grumbled.

“Hey, no,” Veld said, adding a touch of sternness to his voice. “It’s not a contest. He likes you well enough, you both just have trouble putting it into words. You and Nero were cut from the same cloth, and because of that you butt heads sometimes.”

“It’s not that simple! You’re the sane one, the safe one, the one he comes to for advice. He looks up to you.”

Vincent looked at Nero, silently floating in his tank. His eyelids twitched, his brows drew together, and to Vincent, every expression that crossed Nero’s face meant pain. Not just physical pain, but the anguish of losing everyone he loved. And what was he left with?

“He’ll never forgive me, Veld. I’ve been damned since Hojo pulled that trigger, and it’s no different now. I killed his family, destroyed his whole world. I killed him, just like I killed Sephiroth!”

Standing, Veld grabbed him and pulled him close. Vincent almost fell into Veld’s arms, automatically latching his arms around him more for balance than for comfort. At once Vincent’s litany of self-debasement cut off. Veld was shorter by almost a full head, but he was broader, and more solid than Vincent could ever hope to be. He was the rock, the fixed point in their relationship. He was always there when Vincent needed him. It came as a shock to realize that steadfast support was trembling in his arms.

“...Veld?”

“Shut up, Valentine,” Veld muttered into his shoulder, voice uncharacteristically small and tight. “Just shut up.”

Too stunned to do anything else, Vincent obeyed. Guilt competed with alarm as he heard Veld sniff quietly, trying to hide the noise in the fabric of Vincent’s shirt. Gods of Gaia, he was _crying!_

“Veld,” Vincent began, horror-struck. “Veld, I’m sorry! I didn’t… I wasn’t…”

Taking a deep breath, Veld lifted his head. His cheeks were barely damp, but tears had clotted his eyelashes. The look on his face was a painful mixture of grief, reproach, and determination.

“Do you think you’re the only one who cares about him?” Veld challenged quietly. “That you’re the only one who’s had to bury a child? That I don’t blame myself for not catching this before it escalated? You keep calling him my stepson. Well godsdammit, I hope you’re happy because that boy means just as much to me as he does to you!”

Vincent blinked, having expected a different sort of lecture.

“Elfe hated me. I don’t think she ever completely forgave me for the fire, for being a Turk, for my association with Shinra...everything,” Veld went on. “At best she learned to tolerate me. She had a right to be angry, to despise me. But I couldn’t let her suffer on her own. Damn it, she was my daughter and I didn’t take care of her as a child, so I took care of her then.”

Veld paused, pulled in a shaky breath. “I held her as she drew her last breath. It was all I could do for her, but Alexander help me, that is _not_ going to happen to Nero.”

Reaching, Veld cupped Vincent’s face in both hands. “He’s your son. He’s a Turk. He’s family. You don’t get to give up on him. Neither do I.”

“Then you’re stronger than I am. You always have been.” Vincent looked away from Veld, away from the determination in his face, the pain in his eyes. “I never get to keep what I value most. I never realized how much it hurt to lose your child, but now…Veld, I don’t know how to hope.”

“Then you go on without it, Vince. You just keep going, with or without it. Can you do that for me? For Nero?”

“I’ll try,” said Vincent. “I can’t promise more than that.”


	43. Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes being a parent means doing not only what's right, but what's hard.

Vincent tried to nap in Nero’s room, but gave up after an hour or so, and turned the cot over to Shalua.

“I can’t sleep,” he told her, “and you look exhausted. Lie down. I’ll wake you if Nero needs you.”

“I’ll just close my eyes for a few minutes,” she said, curling up on the cot. Thirty seconds later, she was sound asleep. Vincent rescued her glasses, setting them on the exam table, and went to stand by Nero’s pod.

Suspended in dark mako, Nero’s lean, pale body seemed as insubstantial as a ghost, crowned by the floating cloud of his long black hair. A thin stream of bubbles rose continuously from the CPAP mask that covered the lower half of his face. Above it, his eyes were closed, but movement could be seen beneath the translucent lids as he dreamed.

Vincent laid a hand on the glass pod. _Gods, please let him live. Please heal him…_

His eyes burned, too dry for tears. He leaned his forehead against the glass. If only he could phase through it the way Ned did, so that his son, even in sleep, would know he was there; maybe it would help, to know he wasn’t alone.

Behind him, a soft voice said, “Hi, Vincent. How is he?”

Vincent turned. “Hi, Shelke. He’s...I guess ‘stable’ is the best word.”

“Okay, that’s good, right?” Shelke came to stand next to him, and he rested a hand on her shoulder.

“He’ll get through it,” Vincent said, with more confidence than he felt. It was easier to be positive for someone else’s sake than his own.

“Yeah. He will.” Shelke gave him the same sort of cautiously hopeful smile that he’d given her. “I see Shalua finally gave in.” She nodded toward her sister, who hadn’t moved since she’d lain down.

“Yeah, she needs the rest more than I do. She’s been here pretty much twenty-four/seven for Nero.”

“So have you.”

“I know, but she’s keeping him alive.” Vincent glanced at the monitors, the CPAP machine, and all the tubes and wires that were helping Nero breathe and heal. Technology had advanced a great deal since his day, for which he was profoundly grateful. “Me, and Veld, and Max, we’re just sort of the rearguard. Shalua’s on the front lines.”

“You should probably get some rest, too, Vincent.”

“I can’t right now. Maybe this evening. Max will be back later. She had a class she couldn’t miss. And Veld--”

He stopped as Nero stirred, whimpering. Nero shook his head, sending streams of bubbles racing through the mako.

“Oh gods, is he okay?” Vincent looked at the monitors, but the digital screens with their numerical readouts were too alien for someone with no medical training to read. He turned back to the pod. “Nero?”

Nero’s eyes fluttered as he sputtered and coughed. His hands rose, clawing at the CPAP mask. One of the monitors began to beep. Vincent didn’t need to decipher the readouts to know what that meant.

“He’s having trouble breathing-- _Shalua!_ ”

“I’ll wake her,” Shelke said, but Shalua was already rising, reaching for the glasses Shelke had snagged off the table.

“I got it, Vincent.” Shalua went straight for the CPAP machine, flipping switches. Nero tugged at the mask again. Shalua clicked another switch. Nero’s chest rose as he drew in a deep breath, letting his hands fall.

“What’s going on?” Vincent asked, looking back and forth between Shalua and Nero.

“He was off rhythm,” said Shalua. “It’s happened once or twice. It’s okay now.”

Vincent’s heart, usually nearly still, kicked hard enough to hurt. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Nero’s eyes, half-open, gleamed gold through the murky liquid. He stirred, moaned, began to cough. One hand rose toward his throat, blocked by the brace around his neck.

“He’s in pain,” said Vincent. “Isn’t there anything we can give him?”

“We’ve tried everything,” said Shalua. “Nothing works with his system, I’m sorry.”

Nero blinked, lifting his head. His eyes cleared a little, his gaze steadying, though whether anything he saw made sense to him, it was impossible to tell.

“Is he awake?” said Shelke, coming closer to his pod.

“He’s getting there,” said Shalua, eyeing the monitors. “Let’s give him a few minutes. He might just go right back to sleep.”

Vincent approached the pod, putting a hand on the glass again. “Nero? Hi.”

Nero just watched him, a slight frown crinkling his brows.

“Hey, kid,” Vincent said softly. “D’you know who I am?”

A long moment stretched the silence. The confusion faded from Nero’s eyes to be replaced by one of guarded reproach. As much as he could, he drifted back against the far wall of the tank. Yes. He knew who Vincent was. Nero watched the three of them, and slowly turned in his pod, gazing around the room. His eyes fell on the two empty pods nearby. Lifting one hand, he pointed.

“Oh gods.” Vincent looked at Shelke, at Shalua. “What do I say? I have to tell him something.”

“He has to know, Vincent,” Shalua said, her voice gentle.

“But he’s still so fragile. What if he can’t take it?” The pain of renewed grief might hit him even harder than it had when they’d first found Weiss dying, Rosso already dead. And yet, he had to know the truth. Vincent backed away, unable to force the words out.

“He’s stronger than you think, Vincent,” Shelke reminded him. “Stronger than he thinks. He always has been. Do you want me to tell him?”

For a horrible moment, Vincent actually considered it. Let the words come from someone else, anyone else. I killed them - don’t make me say it…

That was the coward’s way out. He couldn’t do that to Shelke. “No. No, it has to come from me.”

He stepped closer to the pod. “They’re...gone, Nero. I’m so sorry.”

Vincent swore he could hear his son shatter; his materia heart collapsing into a thousand razor-sharp fragments. Nero went still, his eyes going blank with shock. His body sagged, head drooping as his arms slowly came up to clasp his shoulders. Hunching into himself as much as he was able, he turned away.

“Shalua?” said Vincent, his mouth so dry he could barely speak. “Is there anything we can do…?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, rubbing his back with one hand. “Give him time.”

“There’s no amount of time that can make up for what I did,” Vincent said. Images of smoking rubble, of Weiss and Rosso’s broken bodies lying at his feet, flashed through his mind. “It’s my fault they died.”

“I don’t understand,” said Shelke. “I thought Chaos…?”

“That was me.”

Shelke stared at him. “What?”

“Chaos,” said Vincent, tapping his chest over what was left of his heart. “He’s...he was...his summon is what keeps me alive, more or less.”

“I never realized that was you.” Shelke sat down on the cot, her face pale. “Then Azul and Argento…are probably dead too.”

“They are,” said Vincent, tears sliding down his face. “Death and destruction just follow me wherever I go.”

“Vincent, none of this is your fault,” Shalua said. “He’ll get--”

“Don’t say he’ll get over it! That’s not how it works.”

“I was going to say,” said Shalua with deliberate patience, “that he’ll get better. He will. Grief is always a rough road, but you’re here to help him with that. All of us will help.”

Vincent shook his head, watching as Nero floated, silent and somehow diminished. Stepping closer, Vincent put his hand on the glass once more.

“Nero,” he said, voice thick and shaky, “I love you. Whatever you think of me, that will always be true. I wish things had gone differently.” He swallowed, tried again. “You’re so young. You’ll make a new life here, a good life. Don’t give up.”

“Vincent, don’t…” said Shelke, but he moved around her, heading for the door. The last thing Nero needed to see was his father, the bearer of bad news, the bringer of death. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

\--

Phone in hand, Shelke followed Vincent down the hall.

“Go away, Shelke.”

“Nope. Gonna stay with you,” she said, one eye on her phone as she sent a text to Veld.

Vincent stopped at a small alcove, floor-to-ceiling windows framing a cushioned bench and a plump upholstered chair. A crystal vase stood on a little table square in the center of the space.

“Leave me alone.”

“Veld’s on his way, I’m keeping you in one piece until he gets here.”

“For gods’ sake, Shelke, it’s not like I can die!”

“I know. So don’t try, okay? Nero needs you.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Vincent snapped. “I’m the one who keeps hurting him! Every time I open my mouth, I hurt him!”

He snatched the vase from the table, sent it crashing into a corner. Shelke jumped backward, ducking the crystal shards that flew every which way.

“I can’t do this.” Vincent bent double, his hands gripping his head. “I can’t...keep hurting him, I can’t…”

“Vincent, you had to tell him,” said Shelke. It wouldn’t take away Nero’s pain, or Vincent’s, but it was truth. She opened her arms. “Hey. Vincent? Let me…?”

“No.” Crouching, nearly on his knees, his voice was muffled by his hands. “Don’t touch me.”

He shuddered visibly, one long tremor, and let out a deep groan. “Shelke...get...back…”

She’d already begun to move, instinct warning her before his words did. He shook, his long, lean body blurring and changing, growing bulkier and larger - so much larger, his shirt and jeans split at the seams. He rose, both taller and wider, strips of torn fabric hanging off of his huge frame.

Large red eyes under heavy brows blinked, his pale, square face still wearing Vincent’s tears.

“Oh, gods.” Shelke stood her ground, wishing she’d worn her mag rods, but who brought weapons to a hospital?

“Little girl.” The voice rolled like rocks down a mountainside. The giant looked her over - and bowed from the waist.

“Small one, I am Gigas.”

“Um. Hi. I’m Shelke.”

“I am most pleased to make your acquaintance.” Gigas straightened, turning his head to survey the alcove, the hospital hall beyond it, and the scatter of broken glass. Muscles bunched in his arms as he lifted them, hands curling into fists. “Is there danger? Are you threatened?”

She shook her head. “No, Vincent’s just upset. His son is hurt, and Vincent - I guess he couldn’t deal with it anymore.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Yes, Vincenz is most upset. We all have felt it, we three.” He tapped his head with a large, blunt finger. “Myself, the Wolf, and the Masked One.”

“Oh. Um, they aren’t coming out - are they?” That was all they needed, a were-thing loping down the corridors, or Mask flinging knives and propositioning everyone. But Gigas shook his head.

“No, it is just myself. Vincenz is quite disturbed.”

“You can say that again,” Shelke muttered. Gigas blinked, but before he could speak, Veld appeared at the end of the corridor, hurrying toward them. Shelke waved at him.

“We’re here,” she called.

“The hell is going--oh.” Veld came to a breathless stop, eyeing Gigas. “Okaaay. Well, this guy is alright, as long as he’s not angry. Hello, Gigas.”

“Sir Dragoon.” Gigas bowed again.

“Give me a report, Shelke?”

“Nero woke,” she said. “Right after that, he asked about his brother and sister.”

“Ah,” said Veld, evidently putting two and two together. “And Vincent blamed himself.”

“Well, he told us about Chaos, so…”

“I see. Shelke, I’m sorry.”

She nodded. “Thanks. I told him it wasn’t his fault, but, well. You know how that goes.”

Veld sighed. “Yeah, I do.” Glancing at Gigas, he caught sight of the smashed vase. “Did Vincent or Gigas do that?”

“Vincent.”

Veld rolled his eyes. “Make sure the hospital bills him for it, would you? I’m going to see Nero and talk to Shalua. Do you mind keeping Gigas company for a while?”

“No, he seems cool.” She smiled at Gigas, who responded with a sad smile of his own.

“I shall wait with Miss Shelke,” he said.

“Great,” said Veld. “You two hang out right here. I’ll be back.”

\--

Veld walked into Nero’s room expecting more drama, but it was quiet enough. Nero floated in his pod, staring at nothing, his eyes bleak and dark-rimmed. Shalua, fussing with the monitors, looked up as Veld came in.

“Veld, I’m glad you’re here. Did you talk to Vincent and Shelke?”

“I did,” he said. Technically, it was true, even if Vincent wasn’t himself at the moment. “How’s Nero?”

“Physically, he’s improving.” Shalua shoved a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “He asked about his siblings, and that...did not go as well.”

“Shelke filled me in.” Veld went to the pod, laying a hand on the glass. “Hi, Nero.”

Nero’s eyes shifted toward him, but didn’t connect. He drifted, his mind evidently elsewhere.

“Shalua, is there anything I can do to help?” Veld asked.

“Not really, unless you can convince Vincent this isn’t his fault.”

Veld thought about that. “I’m not sure I should. I know it was Chaos more than Vincent, but he was there. He was involved. Pretending otherwise would be a cop-out.”

“But I thought he wasn’t in control?”

“I’m not sure how much control he had,” Veld admitted. “Either way, it’s better to own the truth. Nero won’t appreciate lies and evasion.”

“You’re right.” Shalua sighed, watching Nero. “He’s holding his own right now. I’d like to keep him calm.”

“Well, as to that - Shalua, one of Vincent’s headmates came out.”

Alarm crossed her face. “You left him out there with Shelke?”

“It’s Gigas. He’s big, but harmless as long as he doesn’t need to fight. Shelke’s not worried.”

“Oh. Well. Sometimes I forget she’s not nine anymore.”

“Someday I’ll tell you about the time Gigas and I got drunk together,” said Veld. “If I can get him to come home, I’ll try that again. It would knock Vince out for a while. In the meantime, do you think it would be all right for Gigas to visit Nero for a minute? It might be a good idea to have this guy on his side.”

“For a minute or two only. He needs rest, Veld.”

“Understood.” He went to the door and gestured to Shelke and Gigas. “Come on in, you two.”

Gigas bent his head to enter the room, and bowed to Shalua. “At your service, Madame Doctor.” He glanced down at his torn clothing. “I apologize for my attire. The transformation can be rough.”

Shalua blinked up at him. “Ah, that’s okay, thanks.”

Veld led Gigas over to the pod. “Gigas, this is Nero, Vincent’s son.”

Gigas approached the pod, his silent steps as quick and graceful as his host’s.

“Ah, yes,” he rumbled. “I would know him by his face, so much like Vincenz he is. Greetings, young Nero. I am Gigas.”

Nero blinked blankly at the giant, saying nothing, but the spark of interest in his eyes seemed to encourage Gigas.

“My pleasure to meet you, Nero. I wish that it were under better circumstances. My deepest condolences to you on the loss you have suffered.”

Whether Nero understood him or not, something in the giant’s sorrowful tone seemed to get through. A tear slid down Nero’s face, dissolving in the mako.

“I wish for you long life, health, and many friends,” said Gigas. “You have great power within you. Embrace it. It will strengthen you.”

Nero grimaced, clearly skeptical, and Gigas’s sad smile came out. “Grief is not all, Nero. Let it come, but do not let it rule you.”

He turned back to Shalua. “I shall not tire him. I must go.”

“I wish you could stay longer,” said Shelke, taking one of his huge hands in her small one. “It was really nice to meet you.”

“I thank you, Miss Shelke, but I must let Vincenz return.” Gigas put his other hand to his own heart. “There is pain here, both his and mine. We share much.”

He stepped aside, toward the door, and stopped, shuddered, blurred, and shrank, leaving Vincent sitting on the floor, still shivering, his clothes half-shredded..

Shalua fetched a spare lab coat and passed it to him. He took it without looking up, draping it over his shoulders, and curled up where he sat.

“Well, you done hiding?” said Veld.

“Fuck off,” Vincent muttered. “You’re scaring Nero!”

“Valentine, don’t take your drama out on me.”

“Nero’s not scared,” said Shelke. “Maybe just a little confused. Did anyone think to tell him…?”

Veld bit back a groan. No, he hadn’t thought to tell Nero who Gigas was.

“Nero,” he said. “Gigas is one of your dad’s headmates. He comes out when Vincent needs to hide.”

Vincent shot him a dirty look. He rose, wobbling a bit, clasping the too-short lab coat at his throat. “Just...tell me Nero is alright for now.”

“He is,” said Shalua. “For now.”

“Good.” Vincent took a step, another, then sank back to the floor, his face an unflattering shade of green. He held out a hand. “Bucket?”

Shalua passed one to him. He hunched over it, retching, his shoulders shaking. When he lifted his head, Shelke handed him a paper cup of water.

“Thank you.”

Nero watched all this with an expression of deep dismay, one hand on the glass wall of the pod, tears still running down his face. A sound escaped him, half question, half groan, and his arms crept upward, hands clutching at his shoulders.

Veld turned to him. “It’s okay, Nero. Vincent’s fine.”

“Vincent is NOT fine.” Vincent looked up, eyes burning red. “Vincent is pissed.”

“Vincent--” Veld began, but Vincent cut him off.

“My son is grieving. I know what grief feels like. But this is ten times worse because I killed his family! And everyone just wants me to calm down and I can’t calm down.” He paused, taking a shaky breath. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Please don’t be angry,” said Shelke, kneeling down a little distance away. “We were just worried that you were gonna do something awful, something that would just make you hurt even more.”

“Nothing can hurt more! If I lose my son, I won’t want to live, Shelke.” He leaned toward her, his tone rising. “If he dies, then I’m done with everything. I might as well go back to the coffin.”

“And how would that make things better, spook?” Veld knelt next to him, putting an arm around him. Vincent tolerated it, barely.

Shalua had turned away, working at the machines that helped Nero breathe. Nero shivered violently, bubbles rising in clouds all about him. “This is not helping Nero, people!”

“You see?” said Vincent. “It’s like I’m toxic.” Pulling away from Veld, he went to the pod; wrapping his arms as far around it as he could, he leaned his forehead against the glass.

“Shalua,” Veld whispered, “if you have any of those behemoth tranqs, you might want to get one ready, just in case…”

She nodded, going quickly to a cabinet and retrieving a vial and hypodermic with as little fuss as possible. She needn’t have worried. Vincent never looked away from his son.

Nero shied back, and then his whole body began to shake.

“Okay, that’s enough!” Shalua pushed Vincent aside, into Veld’s arms. “Go home. Get some rest. Out!”

Something was wrong, but all Veld could do at the moment was get Vincent out of there. He gently urged him toward the door, keeping his back to Nero’s pod. “Come on, Vince. Home.”

He got him as far as the hall without resistance. “Can you wait out here for me? Just for a minute.”

Vincent nodded. All the anger seemed to have gone out of him. Eyes down, he walked back to the visitors’ alcove and sank onto the bench.

Veld looked back at Shalua. “How is he?”

“He’s had a seizure,” she said, finishing with tubing and needles as she spoke. “The medication should help, but he needs to rest. I don’t want to see you or Vincent back here until at least tomorrow morning. Can you manage that?”

“Damn.” Veld watched Nero, now drifting limply in the mako, eyes closed, breath coming shallow and slow. “Is he going to make it through the night?”

“He should. I’ll run more tests tomorrow. What about Vincent? I know he’s worried for Nero, but I’ve never seen him fall apart like this.”

Veld said nothing for a few minutes, watching Nero as he floated in drug-induced sleep. Nero’s fragile state was only one reason for Vincent’s meltdown. There was another, and he debated with himself for a moment on whether to tell that part of Vincent’s story to Shalua and Shelke.

It wasn’t a long debate. He didn’t trust many people, but Shelke and Shalua were definitely on that short list.

“Shelke, Shalua,” Veld said, glancing at each of them, “I’m going to tell you something. Please don’t let it leave this room.”

“Of course,” said Shalua, while Shelke nodded.

“It’s possible,” said Veld, “that Sephiroth was Vincent’s too. Not certain, you understand, but from what Vince told me, there’s a very good chance.”

“I...had no idea,” said Shalua. “That explains a lot.”

“But...Vincent helped stop Sephiroth,” said Shelke. “He helped...oh gods.”

“Exactly,” said Veld. “Vince believes he was. You have no idea how determined he is to not lose another son. He talks about it in sleep, has nightmares...He and Nero already have so much trouble communicating, and now this.”

“I get it,” said Shelke. “If I can help, you know I will.”

“You’ve already been a big help. And you, Shalua.”

 

“Doing my best,” she said, blushing a little. The heightened color made the shadows under her eyes stand out more.

“Thank you,” said Veld, giving her a quick embrace. “I’ll take Vince home. Text me if anything happens; me, not Vincent, okay?”

“Will do. Now go, before he decides to jump out a window or something.”

“Right. Sorry, Shalua. And Shelke, thanks for your help with Gigas.”

“He was nice,” she said. “Veld, I’ll stay with Nero, if Shalua says it’s all right.”

“Thank you.”

He left to find Vincent. Gods, it was going to be a long night.


	44. Sad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent and Nero grapple with some hard truths- not all of which are bad.

_Gently,_ a voice rich and deep filtered down from the ether. _Peace, my son._

 _I’m not your son,_ Nero snapped. _Why is everyone talking to me like a godsdamned baby?_

 _You are young to me,_ the voice said, sounding not offended, but amused. _Then again, most things seem young to me._

The voice was not Vincent’s, or Veld’s, or even Weiss or Azul’s. This one was strangely melodious, and echoed of eternity.

_Who are you?_

The smile was invisible, but there nonetheless. _I am Omega, Lord of the Dead, Bearer of Souls, Keeper of the Path to the Promised Land._

_...am I dead?_

_No, young one. Your father, my brother, they sought me out that I might spare your life. The number of your days is not yet complete._

Nero was lost. _Huh?_

 _The huge materia at the bottom of Reactor Zero was where I slept for many thousands of years,_ Omega explained. _Your beloved led your father thereto, whereupon he begged for your life. I would deny my brother nothing, for he is of my own spirit._

 _Your brother’s a bastard,_ Nero grumbled. _He killed my family!_

The word left his mouth without thought, without choice. He had not even known there was a word for what he, Weiss, Rosso, Azul, and Argento had been to each other. Although he had no form, no body, no eyes from which to shed tears, Nero broke down and began to cry.

_He killed my family…_

Warmth and strength surrounded him, and Nero huddled into it instinctively.

 _All of you were children of Jenova, the pestilence who killed my family,_ Omega said quietly. _For many eons, we thought she had devoured Chaos, leaving our family bereft._

Nero bit back a cruel comment, keeping his thoughts and resentment to himself.

_Chaos spared you alone because you were born into darkness. Even when Gaia was young, few children were born of shadow. They were to be cherished and instructed that death and darkness need not be feared. Blood calls to blood, and the dark mako in your veins calls to him and to myself, just as your blood calls to the heart of your father._

_I don’t have a father,_ Nero said bitterly. _I don’t need or want one, especially not one who’d murder everyone I care about so he could have me all to himself for gods know what._

 _You give him too much credit._ Omega sounded amused. _Chaos and your father are alike in this: their hearts govern their actions. Neither would have plotted so elaborately to capture your affection._

_I don’t believe you._

_I do not expect you to,_ Omega soothed. _Your heart is yet bleeding. Such a wound may never fully heal, but the pain will decrease with time. That much, I can offer you._

 _I don’t want it!_ Nero sobbed. _I don’t want time, or a father, or a life on the surface! I want my family! I want to go home!_

 _It is not your time,_ Omega apologized. _I’m sorry, truly, I am. My power lies in death, and a peaceful transition from this world to the next. I know only the path that leads to peace eternal, not back to life in a mortal body. I cannot bring your loved ones back to you, nor can I permit you to enter into the Promised Land._

_Is that where they are?_

The nod was unmistakable, felt rather than seen. _Yes. There they shall await you, until your days are accomplished._

 _I didn’t ask for this,_ Nero told him. _I don’t want you in my head. I just want it to be over._

 _It will not always hurt so much,_ Omega promised. _For now, yes, there will be pain, but think upon the pain you have spared those who love you._

_No one loves me._

_Your father loves you, as does his husband, though they insist upon veiling their feelings. Your surviving sister loves you, and covets your safety. Your beloved loves you, and longs to end this cruel separation. Your sister’s sister, who sees to your recovery, and your comrades in arms who do not yet know of the danger you faced, all these would mourn you deeply._

Nero had nothing to say to that. To his ears, it sounded like a lie. “Love”, like “hope”, had been a four-letter word in Deepground; a term that was never used. Consequently, Nero had not had a word for so many things. Perhaps one word in five of Omega’s speech had made sense, rather as if he’d been talking to Vincent.

Thoughts of Vincent brought hot, angry tears to his non-existent eyes that Nero was powerless to stop. He never should have given up searching on his own, should never have trusted Vincent and Veld. He should have never ventured up to the Surface. Chaos might have struck the finishing blow, but this was his- Nero’s- fault.

\--

Veld left Nero’s room, going down the hall to the windowed alcove where Vincent waited. 

A nurse was there, talking softly, one hand on Vincent’s arm. No doubt she was the source of the blanket draped over his shoulders, the fabric quivering as he shook underneath it, head bowed, long, ragged hair hiding his face. Veld suspected he still wept under cover of that mop.

The nurse looked up as Veld approached. “Are you with him?”

“Yep. Ready to go, Vince?”

“Sir.” The nurse ushered him a few feet away, in that brisk, professional manner that brooked no nonsense. “Your friend appears to be in shock. He’s refusing treatment, which is his right, but I’m very concerned. Do you think he’d at least speak to a grief counselor?”

“No one’s died yet,” said Veld, more gruffly than he’d intended, but the sooner he got Vincent out of here, the less likely there’d be another unexpected limit break. Gigas had come and gone; Galian would be problematic at best, and the last thing anyone here needed was Hellmasker.

The nurse persisted. “Well, he looks like he’s been in accident.”

“No, nothing of the sort,” said Veld, offering no other explanation. “I’ll take him home. He’ll be much better after a night’s sleep.”

Assuming he could get him to sleep, which was by no means certain. His plan to get Gigas drunk off his ass hadn’t even gotten started. Booze wouldn’t work on Vincent otherwise, but Gigas was unlikely to return any time soon.

The nurse frowned, glancing at Vincent, who hadn’t moved. “I can’t force either of you to accept help, but please at least take him to his primary physician.”

“I’ll do that,” Veld lied. It wasn’t any of her business that Vincent didn’t have a primary physician. 

As Vincent didn’t seem inclined to move, let alone have another hissy fit, Veld took a minute to place a call. When that was done, he urged Vincent to his feet. 

“Come on. I called Tseng. He’s sending a Turk to drive us home.”

Vincent nodded, eyes downcast, one hand loosely holding the blanket around him. Veld walked him down to the entrance, where the car turned up exactly three minutes later--bless Tseng’s efficiency. Vincent folded himself into the back seat beside Veld without a word.

Once home, Veld talked him into the shower, and tossed the shredded clothing himself - none of it was salvageable. Poking around in Vincent’s closet, he found an old cotton shirt, and sweatpants worn to comfortable softness. 

Vincent accepted the clothes and got dressed, his movements mechanical and slow. Veld handed him a fresh towel.

“Dry your hair,” he said, “and I’ll go make some tea. Okay?”

A silent nod, but at least he did as Veld suggested. 

Alcohol might not work, but Veld chose to believe that a cup of high quality herbal tea cured a multitude of ills. Hot, sweet tea was good for shock, and chamomile for stress. Veld would have added valerian for sleep, but Vincent couldn’t stand the taste. He brought the tea to the living room, where Vincent had curled up in one corner of the sofa. 

Vincent accepted the cup, but set it aside without tasting it. Veld sighed.

“Vincent,” he said gently, sitting next to him. “It’ll be okay. Really.”

“No,” Vincent said, shaking his head, tears spilling down his face. “He’s dying. I’m losing him. He’s going to die.”

“No, he’s not,” Veld snapped. Never mind that he feared the same thing. Vincent didn’t need to hear that. “Shalua and her team are doing everything they can. He’s strong. He’ll make it.”

“No, he--” Vincent stopped, blinking hard. “I--made it worse. He’s afraid of me. I’m less than nothing to him. He’s lost everyone he cared about, and it’s my fault.”

At least he was talking, even if he wasn’t making a lot of sense. Veld focused on the one thing he was fairly certain about. “Vincent, you are not Chaos. Nero is smart enough to understand that, once the edge wears off. ”

“It won’t matter, Veld! He doesn’t want to live!”

“Vincent, he’s not dying. I promise you.”

“You can’t promise that!” Vincent turned abruptly, anger sparking in his eyes. “I’m not a child! Stop talking down to me, I’ve had enough of that!”

“That wasn’t my intention,” said Veld, holding on to his patience. 

“Right.” Vincent shifted away from him, arms crossed tight over his chest, almost but not quite as Nero often did. “You think I can’t tell when you’re humoring me? That you think I’m overreacting?”

That struck a nerve, little though Veld liked to admit it. “I never said that.”

“You don’t have to.” Vincent glanced at him. “It’s always the same. Do you know what it feels like when all my friends think I’m just a drama queen, getting upset over nothing?”

“Okay, not nothing, I get that--”

“No, you don’t! You think I should just sit quietly and wait for Shalua to concoct a miracle! No one even asks me how I’m doing because they’re all afraid I’ll tell them.”

“Vincent, I--”

“It’s like being in the lab again,” Vincent said, his voice thin and shaky. “It hurt to move and it hurt to lie still. It hurt to breathe. I could scream for days and no one cared. No one heard me. That’s how this feels.

“You should know. You should remember. How it feels to be helpless, to watch your child suffering and not be able to do anything. But at least with your daughter, you didn’t make it worse.”

“I don’t know about that,” Veld said. The memories never really faded, and he winced. “There were days...But Vince, you’re not making it worse. Trust me. Nero’s not that fragile. Remember what Shelke said about how strong he is?”

“She meant physically. He’s hurting inside, Veld. Grief can kill. I can guess what he’s going through. You know I’d have done myself in if I could have found a way.”

“If you had succeeded, you’d never have known Nero.”

“And Chaos wouldn’t have killed his family,” Vincent countered. 

“And Nero and his siblings would have been part of Deepground until the day they died,” said Veld. Maybe it was harsh, but going easy on this wasn’t useful.

“That day would’ve come soon enough. They’d have gone up against the full WRO army, and probably Cloud Strife as well. How could they defeat the man who beat Sephiroth? As strong as Nero and his siblings were--” Veld shrugged. “They were still only three kids, untested in real combat. There’d be casualties aplenty, but they’d have lost.”

Vincent took this in in silence, staring at the cup in his hands. Veld slid an arm around him, holding him close. 

“I’m sorry, Vincent. You’re right. It’s been one shock after another since Nero turned up, and the cultural gap between him and the rest of us makes it even harder. We haven’t taken your concerns as seriously as we should have. I’m as guilty of it as anyone else.”

“Yes, you are.”

“OK, I deserved that.” Veld took the teacup from Vincent, set it on the end-table. “Come on. It’s late. Let’s go to bed. Shalua will give us a report in the morning.”

Vincent nodded, silent again. He didn’t bother to change, just slid into bed beside Veld as he was. 

True sleep eluded both of them. Veld dozed intermittently, and every time he opened his eyes, Vincent lay next to him, tears still flowing. He didn’t seem to even be aware of them. 

There was nothing else to say, no way to convince him that Nero would live. All he could do was wait for morning, and hope. And pray.

Veld sent a plea to the gods he’d disavowed years ago, figuring they owed him as much as he owed them. Maybe more.

Just let Nero recover, will you? Give Vincent this one thing. They need each other. 

Let that be enough. 

\--

Veld woke to the buzzing of his cell phone. He turned it so that Vincent, stirring beside him, couldn’t see the screen, just in case.

As promised, Shalua had sent a text. ‘Nero had a good night. He’s awake now.’

Veld let himself relax a little, and showed Vincent the message.

Vincent nodded, his expression guarded. 

Veld hit Shalua’s number on speed dial. Texting was all very well for the kids, but it was too early in the morning for old men to mess with it. Not that his fingers were stiff or achy or anything like that.

“Hey, Shalua,” he said when she answered. “Thanks for the update. What’s the plan for the day? Would it be all right for us to visit?”

“It would be better for Nero if you didn’t,” said Shalua in measured tones. “I’m going to run some tests, which may be tiring for him as it is. And Shelke says he’s really not up to seeing anyone today. I’m going to trust her on this. Out of all of us, she knows him best.”

It didn’t take a Turk to read between the lines. “I understand,” said Veld. “Vincent can use a bit more rest as well. I’ll check back with you later this afternoon, if that’s all right?”

“Fine,” said Shalua, relief evident in her voice. “Thanks, Veld. Tell Vincent that Nero’s resting comfortably.”

“I’ll do that.”

Vincent accepted the message without protest. “I know he doesn’t want to see me.”

“He will,” Veld said. “When he’s stronger.”

“He won’t.” That was all Vincent would say about it for the rest of the day. Veld gave up trying to convince him otherwise.


	45. Take Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero thought he was done.  
> No one else is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for suicidal thoughts, non-graphic attempted suicide, talking about suicide.  
> It's okay, it all works out, but if this is not something you need to read tonight, that is totally okay. <3

It was not the first time Nero had woken up starving and in pain, submerged in dark mako. However, the plexiglass tube was new. For a moment he drifted, confused, wondering where he was? It looked like a lab, but not the one he was familiar with. A flicker of white caught his eye; red hair, a prosthetic hand. Shelke’s sister, Shalua. Nero shuddered as it all came crashing down on him.

He tried to sob, but the forced-air mask prevented the extra-deep breath. Lungs already burning convulsed in protest. Nero’s heart and soul would have withdrawn from mortal life, but his body had other ideas. Lack of oxygen triggered adrenaline, triggered panic, and a sudden acute desire to go on breathing. Out of the corner of his eye he noted Shalua rushing to the machines clustered around the mako pod. For a terrifying moment the oxygen cut off. Lungs on fire, he clawed at the mask, trying in vain to tear it off. He coughed, gagging slightly, as a cool, fresh wave of mako spilled down his throat. It seemed to wash away the urgency, the terror that had driven him to fight for his next breath. Exhausted, Nero shivered and let himself go limp. Thicker than water, the mako held him up; suspended in purple like a specimen for study.

“You okay?” Shalua’s voice was distant and fuzzy- more from the double-plated glass than the mako.

Nero met her eyes briefly and looked away.

“I’ll let you rest,” Shalua said gently.

Distantly, he heard her fussing with the machines, making notes, but it barely registered. Everything hurt. Nero could have dealt with that if only it were purely physical pain. A Tsviet’s metabolism ate up analgesics before they could do any good, which made them all adept at accepting discomfort as just one more thing. It was the phantom pain inside that he could not handle. Although his failed attempt had blistered his skin and scorched his lungs, it had drawn no blood. Yet Nero felt as if something vital had been ripped from him- just as Chaos had torn out Rosso’s beating heart- and left a jagged, gaping wound that still gushed blood. He could feel it throbbing with every misbegotten beat of his heart; raw flesh pulling with each labored, half-drawn breath.

Why couldn’t he have done it properly the first time? He was such a screwup he’d managed to botch his own death. How the hell he’d stayed alive for so long in Deepground he’d never know. Now when he wanted to leave the damn surface for good, he was dragged back and patched up again. The mask forcing mako in and out of his lungs meant he could not even ask why they’d gone to so much trouble. Didn’t they understand that he didn’t want this? Then again, when had anyone ever cared about what he wanted?

Shalua had wandered to the far side of the room, fussing with papers and other objects unfamiliar and indistinct. Her back to him, she seemed engrossed in her work.

It occurred to him that he had removed every microchip from every survivor except his own. He wasn’t even sure he could. Shelke had brought the Deepground mainframes back online, which meant if he crossed the electric fence, the chip would explode. Even if it didn’t, it would take anyone looking for him so long to find him that it wouldn’t matter.

Nero would have sighed in relief, except the mask prevented it. He would only have to deal with this for a little while longer. The room was dim, plenty of shadows crowded inside and outside the mako pod. Nero relaxed, expecting to fall through the floor of the tank into familiar darkness, but nothing happened. Pushing himself down in the pod, he poked at the shadow that fell across the floor with his foot. Nothing. Panic rose up in him to compete with the pain. He reached, trying to stretch through the glass to a shadow cast by a nearby machine, but it was impenetrable. His shadows were gone. He was trapped. Truly, irrevocably trapped.

Ice and fire shot up his spine into his brain, and Nero shoved against the mako pod suddenly desperate to get out. He tried to scream, but searing pain made him cough and choke instead. With one hand he pulled at the mask, but the strength to yank it off eluded him. With his free hand he beat the glass, wishing he had Weiss’ strength. Surely the mako pod would not have lasted thirty seconds against his brother’s brute muscle. But Weiss was gone, and Nero did not possess the strength to free himself. That did not stop him from kicking and clawing, making the pod rattle dangerously against the bolts that held it fast to the floor.

“Nero!” Shalua was at his side instantly, false hand pressed to the glass. “Nero, what’s wrong?”

He did not answer, only continued to struggle, the mako frothing violently as he thrashed.

\--

Vincent headed straight for the WRO infirmary. Nero might not be ready for visitors, but Vincent intended to be there when he was. With no real plan aside from camping the waiting area until he was needed, Vincent stopped short. The emergency light above Nero’s door was flashing red, and a pair of nurses had just rushed through the door. This could not mean anything good. Not breaking stride, Vincent followed.

The mako in the pod frothed and boiled, a miniature maelstrom behind glass. At its eye, Nero kicked and thrashed, making the tube rattle dangerously against the bolts that fastened it to the floor. The two nurses- both of them men- were struggling to keep the pod and the surrounding equipment in place. Shelke stood facing Nero, both hands pressed against the glass, speaking soothing words that went unheard while her sister grappled desperately with the various bits of apparatus that kept Nero alive.

“What’s wrong?” Vincent demanded.

“I don’t know!” Shalua said, trying and failing to keep one of the IV lines steady. “He just started thrashing!”

The pod lurched as Nero struggled, his eyes glowing a uniform gold in the dark liquid. Shalua tried to press a syringe into the tubing again, but the line jerked and skipped as Nero fought to escape.

“ _Nero!_ ” Without thought, without hesitation, Vincent lunged and seized Nero by the shoulders. At once, Nero froze.

“Nero?” Vincent asked gently.

Nero started back at him, terrified, his entire body heaving with every labored breath.

“It’s alright, son,” Vincent told him. “You’ll be okay.”

Awareness faded and Nero’s eyes rolled back, the muscles of his arms going soft under Vincent’s hands. Shalua straightened and breathed a sigh of relief, then blinked, empty syringe poised in one hand.

“Vincent?”

It wasn’t until that moment that Vincent realized everyone was staring. Looking down, he saw why: he’d reached straight through the glass as if it were not there. Vincent jerked his hands back with a start. It still creeped him out a little, but at the moment he was glad he shared Nero’s affinity for shadows.

“Thank you,” Shalua told him as the nurses checked to be certain the mako pod was secure and then took their leave. “I’ve no idea what set him off.”

Shelke looked thoughtful, but said nothing.

“The CPAP mask?” Vincent guessed. “Being in a mako pod?” Gods knew such a turn of events would not have sat well with Vincent himself. Who knew what Nero had had to suffer in Deepground’s laboratories? Maybe he had unpleasant memories of mako pods as well.

“I know you said he’s not up for visitors, but is it okay if I hang around?”

Shalua let out a deep sigh. “Vincent, I know you’re worried, and I’m glad you were here to help, but Nero’s really not in any shape to interact. I was planning on keeping him sedated until he’s had a chance to heal a bit more.”

Hopes sinking, Vincent nodded. “I just… I just want to be here if he needs me.”

“I promise you’ll be the first person I call,” she said, resting a consolatory hand on his shoulder.

\--

Nero had not cried as a child. None of them had. This was second-hand knowledge to Shelke, but it had been related before, and was evident in the other Trueborn. Once the babies were taken from their Mothers, it didn’t take them long to learn that crying got them nothing. Before they could talk, or even cut their first tooth, they learned that no one cared.

Shelke had seen Nero get his left arm snapped clean in half by a very apologetic Weiss. She’d seen him chained to the Punishment Pole more times than she’d care to count. Nero had been tortured for minor infractions all his life. He had never cried once. Now, he was making up for it.

Curled up as much as the narrow walls of the mako pod would allow, Nero sobbed uncontrollably. It wasn’t a tantrum, though sometimes his anguish had a raw, razor’s edge brought on by anger. Although his hospital room was hardly public, for him to break down with complete abandon like this made Shelke cold inside. To anyone else, Nero was just venting the pain of a deep and terrible loss. To Shelke, the open display of emotion was far, far worse.

If he were caught sobbing like this in Deepground, it would have been seen as a blatant and unforgivable display of weakness. To one used to looking through the lens of cruelty and domination, it didn’t mean self-soothing, or a healthy release of grief. Nero had given up. He no longer cared about his own safety. Perhaps he wished the old rules still applied; that if he were caught, it would mean a punishment he wasn’t likely to walk away from.

Shelke took a deep breath, trying to steady her own emotions, but it was no use. Tears welled up, beading on her eyelashes. The double-plated glass of the mako pod only dampened the sound of Nero’s sobs, making his keening sound like a wounded animal. Willing herself not to break down as well, she bit the inside of her cheek.

A hand on her shoulder made her jump, almost made her cry out. Shalua’s reflection had appeared on the glass behind her own. Releasing a shaky breath, Shelke leaned back against her sister. How could she tell Shalua that all this was pointless? Nero didn’t want to get well, didn’t want to be here at all. How could they even begin to treat a wound so deep?

Shelke froze as a second, softer voice edged into the space between Nero’s sobs.

“ _Hush a-bye, don’t you cry, my dear little baby  
When you wake you shall have all the pretty little horses…_”

Dear gods. Nostalgia hit Shelke like a blow, a wave of half-forgotten memories crashing down on her. Their mother had sung that song to both of them when they were very little. Later, before Shelke had been taken by Deepground, Shalua alone had sung it to her.

“Black and bay, dapple and gray, all the pretty little horses…”

Nero’s sobs had quieted. Although he did not look at either of them, he’d opened his eyes. A look of bemusement was evident behind his mask. Sniffling a bit, he listened as Shalua began the second verse. Rather than listen, Shelke joined in, doing her best to harmonize.

“ _Way down yonder, in the meadow, there’s a sweet little lamby  
Bees and butterflies, fly before its eyes, poor thing callin’ for its mammy…_”

If she thought about it, the song was actually slightly morbid, but Nero wasn’t likely to notice. Shelke would be willing to bet he’d never been sung to before. Hell, he probably barely knew what singing was. Music hadn’t exactly been common in Deepground.

“ _Hush a-bye, don’t you cry, my dear little baby  
When you wake you shall have all the pretty little horses  
Black and bay, dapple and gray, all the pretty little horses…_”

Nero had quieted, but would not face them. He might not be sobbing openly, but Shelke would have bet money that the salinity inside the mako pod was slowly yet steadily climbing. The liquid rendered his tears invisible; absorbed and dissolved them as soon as they were formed. Grief, like anger, could sometimes be so much worse when silent. Shelke herself had not cried since those first horrible nights in Deepground, had learned to bury her emotions so deep that even she barely felt them. But this was too much. Turning, she faced her sister and did something she had not done since she was very little. She threw her arms around her and hid her face in Shalua’s white coat. The fabric was heavy, and was unlikely to betray the noiseless tears she was powerless to stop.

\--

Vincent might want to stay continually by Nero’s side, but it was Shelke who virtually never left. For hours she would simply sit with Nero; not speaking, not even looking at him. Sometimes Ned left the mako pod to sit in her lap. Stroking Ned’s fuzzy, strangely corporeal body made her think.

Nero was obviously unhappy. He’d barely acknowledge either herself or Shalua, and did not seem to even notice that the other nurses and hospital staff existed. He would not interact with anyone, not even his beloved pet. He’d shut down. Normally when Nero was distressed, he would vanish for hours, or even days, hiding down in his mako caves. Why then, was he still here? Shelke had always assumed Ned and his fellow squeakies were a direct result of Nero’s shadow magic. Now, however, she wasn’t so sure. If Ned was coming and going on his own, without Nero’s help…

He’d gone into a panic for seemingly no reason, thrashing against the tank like an animal in a cage. It wasn’t possible to cage Nero. All paths were open to him so long as there was shadow. ...but what if that portal through reality had been closed? It took a certain amount of MP to cast a spell, though to her knowledge, no one had ever tried to measure how much magic it took to walk through shadow. Perhaps he was so depleted he truly _was_ trapped.

“How is he?”

Shelke started from her thoughts and turned to see Veld enter the room.

“I...I don’t know,” she stammered, feeling numb from her revelation, if revelation it was. “I think I might know why he freaked earlier.”

Veld tilted his head to one side, intrigued. “Oh?”

“Think about it,” Shelke said. “He started thrashing, almost rocked the mako pod off its base. With anyone else I could understand, but this is _Nero_. If he truly wanted out, he could have escaped anytime he wanted.”

“His shadows,” Veld said, remembering the many instances Nero had popped up unannounced. “So you don’t think he’s following orders to get well by staying put?”

Shelke shook her head. “I think he was trying to escape and then realized he couldn’t and panicked.”

Veld nodded, turning this over in his mind. If Nero truly had lost his ability to travel by shadow, at least it would force him to remain in one place and recover. However, whether or not he would ever regain that ability would remain to be seen. His magic might return as he recovered. However, it might not. There was no way to know.

“His shadows were what made him special, made him powerful,” Shelke said softly. “It was the reason the Restrictors were so afraid of him. What if they don’t come back?”

“They’ll come back,” Veld heard himself promise. But what if they didn’t? Omega might keep Nero’s heart beating, but at what cost? Vincent was haunting his own body, possessing his own flesh. What if the same was true for Nero? How would having a force of nature fused with his body and soul affect him?

Veld started as Nero suddenly looked up. Rather, he lifted his head, though his eyes were closed. Off to one side, one of the machines started beeping urgently. Nero’s head jerked again, his body shivering and his eyelids fluttering rapidly.

“Shalua!” Veld called sharply, but she was already running into the room.

“What is it, what’s wrong with him?” Veld asked tensely as Shalua fiddled with the various machines. She did not answer until Nero’s long body had gone limp, and the machines had stopped beeping.

“It’s the microchip,” she explained. “It’s slipped and it’s making him seize.”

“Can you remove it?”

Shalua shook her head. “I don’t know.”


	46. Chip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent can't do this alone, so he calls for backup.  
> The cavalry's idea of "help" are a little different than what he had in mind.

The microchip had to go, there was no way around it. Nero had seized twice more; each successive fit worse than the last. Shalua was honestly impressed it hadn’t caused Nero problems before this. Then again, maybe it had. She had asked him, but Nero had only shrugged. Shalua herself did not know many Turk hand signals or sign language, and it was therefore difficult to ask him much outside of “yes” and “no” questions. Maybe Deepground had had a better way to perform maintenance on the darn things. Maybe they hadn’t cared. The latter seemed more likely.

Tucked just under the base of Nero’s skull, it would have been easy to install, and fiendishly difficult to extract. Which was probably the idea. The little bit of metal and plastic with its miniature firecracker had wiggled loose and was now pressing against the outer myelin of Nero’s spine, wedged between his skull and cervical vertebrae. The absolute last thing they needed was for the damn thing to carve a slit in his spinal cord, or worse still, poke a hole in the membrane surrounding his brain.

Nero had managed so far, but stress and muscle strain could trigger seizures. The poor boy had already been through enough, and it didn’t seem fair that just when he was starting to make progress, he should be set back again. Nero, as always, had taken the news in stride, accepting what she told him without question or comment. Vincent, in contrast, had been beside himself. Literally. Gigas had briefly shown up again, allowing Vincent a respite from the constant fear and worry for his son’s life. At least Shelke was happy to see him.

It wasn’t just that the chip would be difficult to a) reach and b) extract without c) detonating it; it was downright impossible. Shalua had seen Nero pluck the chips from the survivors as if picking a lint ball off the back of their necks. His fingers had phased through their bodies as if Nero were a ghost, and not flesh and blood himself. However, his shadows had yet to reappear, and even if they were present, it was arguable if he could perform the trick on himself. That left only one decidedly nervous and reluctant option: Vincent.

Vincent had Nero’s aptitude for shadows, but nowhere near his level of skill. This was perhaps to be expected. Nero had grown up in Darkness and had been manipulating it to his will all his life. Vincent had only been introduced to this new ability recently. It didn’t seem fair to put so much pressure on him, but they literally had no other option. Shelke had taken the matter in hand, supplying Vincent with a bucket of deactivated and defused chips with which to practice- and once he got good at it, herself. In the chaos of the rescue mission, she had forgotten about her own chip until later. Vincent practiced as if his life depended on it; though it wasn’t his life, but Nero’s that hung in the balance.

No pressure. As if Vincent needed another reason to worry.

“I can’t do this,” Vincent repeated.

“Yes you can,” Shelke told him encouragingly. “You already did it like five times. Try for six.”

Vincent had practiced on everything from muffins to frozen chocobo cutlets. Now Shelke stood with her closed fist extended toward him, a microchip clutched inside. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes- it helped if he couldn’t see it- and swiped his long fingers through hers. Opening his own hand, Vincent smiled a little at the minute square of metal and plastic resting on his palm.

“Ta-daaa!” Shelke sang.

“I should practice with some live ones,” Vincent decided. “Do you have any with the explosive still intact?”

“Err…” Shelke said uncertainly. “Yeah, we do, but I’m not holding those.”

“That’s okay,” Vincent assured her. “We’ll use the chocobo necks.”

Nobody ever wanted to eat a chocobo neck, and consequently it had been easy to get several of the unwanted cuts of meat on which to practice. Carefully tucking a few of the live chips down into the squishy meat, Shelke wiped her hands and stepped back.

The first attempt, he somehow managed to only grab the explosive, the miniature firecracker bursting in his open hand. In the open, it wouldn’t have even been enough to take a finger off had Vincent’s hand been closed. However, if it had gone off inside someone’s head… Shelke gagged and shuddered, suddenly acutely aware of her own chip still embedded in her neck. Vincent likewise swallowed hard, shook himself, and tried again.

He managed to retrieve the rest more or less successfully, though two of the six chips Shelke had hidden in the chocobo meat detonated once he’d extracted them. The good news was that none of them had exploded while still inside the flesh. This did not seem to reassure Vincent very much.

“You can do this,” she told him firmly, taking his hand in both of hers. “I believe in you.”

Vincent didn’t look as if he believed it.

“Try it on me now,” she said.

“Shelke,” Vincent could get not farther; words had left him. “Shelke, I _couldn’t!_ What if I hurt you? Shalua would kill me!”

Shelke looked up at him with a calm, steady expression. “Yes you can. You won’t hurt me. Besides, if you can’t do it for me, how can you do it for Nero?”

She had a point.

“Don’t you want to try it for real before you try it on him?”

“Shelke, I can’t use you as a guinea pig,” he insisted.

“Nonsense,” she scoffed. “Besides, I want the damn thing out of my head too.”

That triggered a short-lived smile and Vincent nodded, realizing the sense in her words but still reluctant to go through with it. “Okay. You win. Turn around.”

Shelke turned away from him, standing at attention, chin tipped forward so that he could access the joint where he head and neck met more easily. Closing his eyes, Vincent took a shaky breath and swiped.

Nothing happened.

Shelke glanced back at him over her shoulder. “Well?”

“Um. Let’s try again.”

Shelke stood patiently while Vincent made the attempt a second time, and a third. On the third try, she shivered, and for just a moment Vincent panicked, certain he’d done something wrong and her chip would go off. It didn’t, and he took another deep breath, reaching out, willing his hand to turn to shadow.

At the last second, his hand jerked. A startled “Eep!” from Shelke made his eyes snap open, but she stood whole and unharmed in front of him- shoulders hunched up as if from a chill.

“Shelke, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Did you get the chip?”

“No.” He took a deep breath, shaking his head. “I can’t do this. I don’t have the dexterity, or maybe it’s just that I’m too attached to you as a friend. Too afraid I’m going to hurt you. I can’t seem to get the emotional distance…”

He paused, an awful idea taking shape in his mind. Before he could lose his nerve entirely, he ran with it.

“Shelke....I might know a way to pull this off. I could...get someone to help me.”

She blinked. “Who? I thought only you and Nero could use shadows.”

“Um, it would still be me? Sort of? Mask….has the fine control, and he has no connection to you. I could ask him to help. To him, it would just be a task, or a game.”

“Would he, though?”

“Maybe. If I offered him something in return. Shelke, I have to do _something_. Nero’s counting on me, but I need your permission to try this.”

Shelke nodded. “Go ahead. I can handle Mask.”

Vincent turned his attention inward, into the dark recesses of his mind where his headmates lived. The wall he’d built of will and determination still stood, stretching into the distance on either side and high above his head. From behind it came the chime of steel links shifting and rolling.

Galian growled as he stalked past, acknowledging Vincent’s presence with narrowed yellow eyes, nostrils flaring. Gigas paused in his patrolling, bowing to Vincent.

_‘You can stand down for a while,’_ Vincent told them both. _‘I need to speak with Mask.’_

Gigas nodded. He and Galian stepped aside, fading into the shadows. Vincent approached the wall.

_‘Mask.’_

No answer.

_‘Hellmasker. I know you’re there.’_

A huff of breath, a muttered curse. _‘What do you want, o jailer? Come to gloat?’_

Vincent took a deep breath. He still wasn’t sure this was a good idea, but it was the plan with the best chance of success. Nero’s life depended on it.

_‘I want to make a deal with you.’_

Mask let out a bark of laughter. _‘Oh do you now? That’s fine, Valentine!’_

The chains rattled against the stone wall. _‘You set me here, you shut me away! Never let me come out to play, never see the light of day! Cruel you are, and cold! Go away!’_

‘I’m serious.’ Vincent placed a hand on the stone, its cool, rough surface scraping his palm. _‘I need your skills, Mask. Your dexterity, your deft touch, your gift for precision. You can do what needs to be done. I know you can.’_

The back of Vincent’s neck prickled, as though Mask were behind him, staring daggers at him. A shiver ran through the stone wall, setting the stones humming.

_‘Do your own killing!’_ Mask snapped. _’Why should I help you?’_

‘ _It’s not killing. It’s…saving a life. Have you ever done that before?’_

_‘I saved yours. I, and the wolf, and the giant! And this is your gratitude, is it? Chains and a stone wall and darkness, and only a beast and a berserker for company!’_

You tried to kill my son! Vincent nearly hissed, but bit his tongue. Antagonism wouldn’t win the day for Nero.

_‘I know you did,’_ he said, _‘and I appreciate it. But I can’t let you run wild. Gigas and Galian don’t get to come out much, either. But this task -- only you can help me with this, Mask. Your talent, your skill. Will you help me?’_

‘ _What will you pay, Valentine?’_ The chain rattled again, a taunt and a reminder.

_‘I’ll let you come out,’_ Vincent said, praying to every god he knew that he wasn’t making a mistake. _‘Not all the time, but when it’s safe, now and then.’_

‘ _Oh how generous,_ ’ Mask muttered. _‘Not good enough. Give me Bronze! Give me a turn with him, Bronze with the pretty eyes!’_

Vincent choked back the first response that came to him, and the second. _‘No. That’s not on the table. I don’t own him, or the right to give him to you.’_

‘ _Forget it then!_ ’ Mask spat, chain clanking as he moved away from the wall. _‘Go away!’_

Gods, Vincent hated this, but what choice had he? He would give anything to save Nero, but it had to be something of his own, something under his control.

‘ _A month,_ ’ he said through his teeth. _‘Thirty days. Not all at once. You can space them out over several weeks. No killing, no knives, no violence.’_

What Mask might do instead was nothing he could imagine right now. He’d have some control over him, Vincent reasoned; surely he could keep him out of major trouble, with Veld’s help and the grace of the gods.

_‘That’s my offer, Mask. Take it or leave it.’_

_‘What’s the job?_ ’ Mask asked, so quickly Vincent’s last words still echoed in his skull.

_‘Nero has a microchip embedded at the back of his neck,’ Vincent said. ‘It has an explosive in it. We’re going to remove it, without harming Nero.’_

A pause, as Mask apparently digested the information. _‘That’s it? Take a little chip from the baby Valentine? What’s the catch?’_

‘ _There is none. Do this for me, and you’ll get your thirty days out in the world. I promise.’_

_‘Can I keep the little toy?’_

_‘What on Gaia for?’_

_‘A souvenir,’_ Mask crooned. _’I’ll find a safe place to keep it! Yes?’_

_‘We’ll see. First you have to get it out. We’re going to try a practice session on someone else. If you do as I say, and **only** as I say, and if it works, then I know I can trust you. What do you say?’_

Mask grumbled and muttered for a moment. _‘Will do it. Can I trust **you**?’_

Vincent decided not be offended. This time. _‘Yes. I’ll let you out now, but the chain stays on for this one. And so help me, if you do anything underhanded, I will lock you up so far down in the dark you’ll see Gaia’s core. Got it?’_

‘Y _es, yes, go on, go on!’_

Vincent emerged from the encounter to find Shelke patiently waiting.

“Well?”

“If you don’t mind turning your back on Mask, we’re ready to give it a try.”

Shelke smiled. “I’ve got eyes in the back of my head, don’t worry. I’m small, I’m not helpless.” Calmly, she turned and tilted her chin down. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Okay. Mask…?”

Vincent shivered as Mask took control of his body, stretching out his arms like a sleeper waking. The metaphorical chain rippled, extending, tugging at its anchor point. Vincent tightened his grip, letting Mask move and speak, but not take a step.

“Helllooo, little pretty!” Supple as a snake, Mask leaned over Shelke, smirking down at her. “So tiny! Gotta little chippy thing in the back of your pretty head?”

“Yes,” she said evenly. “Think you can remove it?”

He winked. “Oh, I can remove _lots_ of things.” He squinted, frowned. “On second thought….don’t play with little girls.”

“I know you’re a gentleman,” she told him with an innocent smile. “I know you’re clever too. Smart enough to snatch it on the first try.”

“Oh yes, yes!” Beaming at her, a smug grin on his face, he straightened up and extended his arm. “Shadow, shadow, in we go….”

From somewhere behind his eyes, Vincent took over long enough to phase his hand, and let go once more as Mask swiped his fingers through skin and bone and muscle.

“Got it!”

Mask flourished the little chip, displaying it between two fingers, and held out his hand to Shelke, offering the chip as though presenting a precious gem.

“For you, pretty!”

Shelke applauded and accepted the chip. “Perfect! Beautifully done! My hero.”

Mask bowed, but before he could say another word, Vincent yanked him back into the recesses of his mind. Mask retreated with no more than a token resistance and a muttered curse.

Looking at the chip in Shelke’s hand, Vincent nodded. “Well. That’s what we’ll do, then.”

\--

It was true, Vincent mused, that a parent would do anything for their child. The deal with his personal devil lurking in the back of his mind, Vincent watched nervously as Shalua and Max fitted the new respirator over Nero’s face. Max’s model was a bit smaller, more streamlined and less bulky. He had only worn it for a few hours once or twice before, but the CPAP mask’s tube wouldn’t reach, so it would have to do.

Although Vincent had reached straight through the glass of the mako pod on at least one occasion, he’d done so spurred by adrenaline and instinct. Asking him to reach through glass as well as flesh and bone would be asking too much. Therefore, they would have to do this on dry land as quickly as they could.

Vincent was there to remove the chip, with Veld standing at his elbow; an ever-present source of quiet and strength. Max had come ostensibly to see how the new respirator worked. Shelke, although her actions had been few, had scarcely left Nero’s side since he’d been put in mako suspension. It was a lot of people to crowd into one room, but Nero was indifferent to all of them.

Shalua flipped the valve to let the mako out of the pod. Rather than drain it back into the reservoir, however, she’d rigged it to drain into one of the other empty tanks. This way, if things went south, Nero could be submerged again immediately and they wouldn’t have to wait for the original tank to refill.

Nero did his best to remain standing, but soon lost to gravity. By the time the liquid was gone, he was sitting on the floor with his back against the transparent wall of the tank. Two orderlies stepped forward, each hooking a hand under his arms. Nero did not even look at them. Between the two of them, they lifted him out of the tank, though one of them probably could have done it, Nero had waned so thin. Shalua followed behind them and threw a blanket, saturated purple with dark mako, over Nero’s shoulders. The lab was still trying to figure out a replacement for his mako suit, but this would keep his skin from cracking and peeling for the brief amount of time he’d be out of the mako pod.

Already breathing hard, Nero could barely hold his head up, let alone walk. The orderlies carried him to the examination table and helped him sit down. Shalua came over and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder to steady him, and to make sure he didn’t fall. Nero clutched the blanket to his shoulders, breaths labored and too-deep, as if he’d run a long way.

“We need to get him back into the pod as soon as possible,” Shalua said tensely, fingers of her flesh hand pinching his wrist as she counted seconds between heartbeats. “He’s working too hard to breathe.”

Max stepped forward and gathered his long, wet hair into a looped-over ponytail, exposing the nape of his neck. It might not actually help, but the gesture made Vincent smile briefly. Stepping around to face Nero, Max took his hands in hers. Behind the mask, Nero looked at her, pleading.

“It’ll be okay, Nero,” Max said, squeezing his hand. “I promise. It really will.”

Nero held her gaze for a moment. Despite the SOLDIER glow, there was no light in his eyes, only exhaustion and a pain so deep that he might never find the surface. He let his gaze drop, attention drawn inward, and pulled his hands back to clutch his shoulders. Despite the new respirator, his breath rasped loud and crackling through the vents.

Vincent stood behind Nero, willing his hands to stop shaking.

“You can do this,” Shelke whispered, patting Vincent’s arm.

_Not me,_ Vincent thought, mentally fingering an imaginary key. Grabbing dud microchips out of frozen chocobo necks was one thing. Stealing live munitions, no matter how tiny, out of his son’s head was another entirely. What if he did it wrong? What if he stole the chip but not the explosive, or grabbed the explosive and left the chip? Could he do it twice if he had to? What if Nero was hurt? What if Mask got away from him?

What if, what if, what if…

Vincent took a deep breath, trying to think of this as just another long shot, a distant target. He could hit this mark. He could do this. Mask would help. Thirty days of supervised freedom in order to keep his hands steady. Shelke was right. He could do this. With help.

Vincent closed his eyes, reaching into his own mind first.

_‘Mask? It’s time…’_

The key turned. The chain fell. Mask stood, and stretched, a wide grin showing all of his teeth.

_‘Yes, let’s do it, where is baby Valentine?’_

Vincent focused on his arm, letting shadow envelop it from elbow to fingertips. Opening his eyes, he blinked to clear his vision, held his breath, and let Mask take control.

The first thing to hit him was the smell. The room stank of hospital, medicine, steel and sharp and too, too clean. Over it all, however, was the dark, damp, moldy smell of mako. There was a tank, but it was empty. A white coat, but this one a lady. Pretty lady… His pretty pretty had worn a white coat too. Alas, alas for pretty… Her name escaped him. Not him on the table this time, though. No, oh no. Someone else lay waiting on the cold steel.

“Hello, little Valentine,” Mask purred, leaning close to Nero’s ear. “Hold very, very still, won’t you?”

Mask had expected him to shudder or cringe, but disappointingly, he did not react. He just sat there, eyes blank and gold and so, so old… Valentine had said this was his baby. How did a child get so cold? A boy so young, and yet so sad. For such a short life, were things so bad?

Experimentally, Mask prodded his arm. Baby Valentine started at his touch, body locking up stiff and cold, as if frozen. A brief shiver passed through him, and then another. Something not right. Something wrong. He couldn’t live like this for long. No one asked, no one cared, all of them just stood and stared. Watching, waiting, starting, gaping. Did they know the mistake they were making? What good was a life to give, when the receiver didn’t want to live?

“Baby Valentine, tell me true,” Mask whispered. “Did they bother to ask you?”

Baby Valentine shut his eyes, his rasping breath sharpened to a cry. Rasping, gasping, out and in. To prolong this would be a sin. White coat paused and raised her head.

“ _Now,_ Vincent,” was all she said.

“Mask,” he muttered, watching baby’s eyelids flutter.

Mask stood back, and reached out, sweeping his shadow-fingers through Nero’s head. There it was, the little toy! He snatched it from the shaking boy. Grabbed the chip, but not the spark; a last way out, escape, to mark.

“I have it!” he crowed, displaying his prize, satisfied over the boy’s demise. The gasping stopped, the shaking ceased; he’d freed him from his pain, at least.

He dropped the chip to the floor, crushed it, and turned toward the door. “Done deal. I did my part.”

Everyone stared at him, faces frozen in delightful horror as the boy’s long body jerked and then fell back. The explosion had been small, barely enough to bob the boy’s head, but inside… Oh, _inside…_ His back hit the table, and his mortal shell shattered into shadow, melting away not into pyreflies, but into a viscous black sludge that slid away off the table, forming a wide, black puddle of shadow on the linoleum tile. Max screamed, the sound drowning out Mask’s obscene laughter. Falling to her knees, she scrabbled in the darkness with both hands as if Nero had fallen into a pond of black water.

“No… No! Nero, no!” Up to her wrists in blackness, she reached, grabbing madly at nothing. The pool of liquid darkness rippled and Shalua seized Max around the middle, pulling her back. The puddle undulated, the center rising up and pulling the rest of the darkness with it into a tall, human shape. It was larger than Nero, and dressed in long robes of deepest void. A wide-brimmed hat of antique style shaded its face, only a pair of piercing golden eyes visible beneath its shadow. Deep indigo wings that somehow managed to be darker than night, yet shining with all the light of the stars unfurled from its back.

“Omega…” Shelke whispered and bowed her head.

Mask sneered. “What are you supposed to be? You think you can beat me?”

Omega’s golden eyes narrowed to slits. Mask flipped him off and darted for the door, but jerked to a halt and fell to the floor, tripping after only a few steps. On the verge of cursing, he looked back and noted Omega standing with one foot planted firmly on his shadow. Slowly, Omega advanced with stately steps, long robes flowing around him. Mask scrambled to his feet, prepared to conjure a blade from darkness as Valentine had once done. He’d no sooner formed the thought than he felt himself lifted off the ground by his throat, yet Omega had not touched him.

“What?” he gasped, legs bicycling empty air, both hands groping for something to cling to.

Omega stood there, one arm outstretched, holding his shadow by the throat.

“That was unkind,” Omega intoned, his voice echoing and ancient, yet strangely familiar. “His father came to you for help, and you betrayed his trust.”

“Fool,” Mask spat, struggling to draw breath as he hung in midair. “Feeble, fearful, foppish, fool!”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Why?” Mask laughed. “ _Why?_ Baby Valentine wanted to die! Did you listen? Did you ask? No you didn’t, only Mask!”

Omega’s grip tightened and something like real fear rose in Mask’s eyes despite his red-faced snarling. A deathly silence hung as they realized the ugly truth of his words: no one had asked Nero even once what he wanted. Although they’d been acting in his best interests, they’d forced this on him.

“Black heart, black body,” he wheezed. “Kill me, you kill daddy…”

“I’m not going to kill you,” Omega rumbled.

Mask tried to cackle but did not have quite enough air. He started in surprised as Omega slowly set him down, though his grip did not relax.

“You should,” he rasped. “We made a promise, made a deal, thirty days I get to be real.”

“You’re not off to a very good start,” Omega observed dryly. Mask hissed like an angry cat and tried to wrench free, but Omega held firm.

“Not gonna kill me dead? Gonna torture me instead?” Mask dared, finally standing still.

“No,” Omega told him, something like patience in his voice. “But I could. Chaos could. We could make things very uncomfortable for you. I have no wish to do that, for the two of you have already suffered much.”

Mask changed tactics at once. “I have, I have,” he whined, tears welling up in his eyes. “He keeps me chained, behind a wall. I never have any fun at all. No knives, no….no friends.”

“Maybe if you wouldn’t try to stab people, you’d have a few friends,” Veld growled. Mask shot a look at him, reaching one hand in Veld’s direction.

“Wanna stay,” he said, his voice cracking. “Am I so bad? I saved him, saved Valentine in the lab. If it wasn’t for me, he’d be dead. He’d be in the coffin for good. And you’d never have a baby Valentine, no, not at all.”

“And I wouldn’t have to put up with you, either. Vincent asked for your help. You had no right to do what you did to Nero.”

“Had as much right as you do,” Mask hissed, waving a hand at the medical equipment and hospital personnel. “What does he want?”

“It’s not for you to decide,” Veld insisted. He turned to Omega. “Any way you can get him out of Vince’s head?”

“I cannot remove what has always been there,” Omega replied. “My brother, perhaps, but this one? No.”

Veld sighed. “I had to ask. Then you might as well let him go. The chip is gone, so in a weird way, Mask did live up to his side of the bargain.”

“As you wish,” Omega said, and released his hold on Mask.

The gawk of surprise as Omega let go lingered until Mask cried out and clutched his head.

He looked up, blinking, his eyes filling with horror. “Nero…?”

Always pale, Vincent’s face had gone dead white. He swayed, but before he could fall Veld stepped in and caught him.

“It’s okay, Vince. Hang on. Omega’s not going to hurt Nero.”

Veld glanced at the Summon personified standing nearby. “Tell me I didn’t just lie to Nero’s father. Is Nero all right?”

Omega looked at both of them, unspeaking, golden eyes like candle flames in the perfect black of his face. Abruptly the shadows of his body collapsed as if he were no more than a scarecrow. The folds of darkness cascaded to the ground, running off of a crouched figure like yards of loose silk. The figure shook itself, the last of the darkness tumbling away and vanishing into his own shadow. Nero pushed himself back with both hands so that he was kneeling on the floor. Shadows covered him like his old mako suit, leaving only his head and hands exposed. He took a deep shuddering breath and lifted his head to look up.

Vincent made a sound somewhere between a whimper and a sob. He slid out of Veld’s hold and wrapped his arms around his son.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice muffled by Nero’s hair. “I made a deal with Mask. I didn’t think I could get the chip out by myself, I was desperate, I--gods, I’m an idiot.”

He sighed, clutching Nero tightly to his chest. “I promise you, I will never, ever do that again. I’m so sorry. Please tell me you’re not hurt.”

Nero said nothing, all his energy focused on pulling air in and out. There was a rasp with each drawn breath, his shoulders heaving as he breathed. Slowly, painfully, deliberately, but without his mask.


	47. Bedrest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero might be out of the woods, but he's not out of the mask.  
> Sometimes the recovery is worse than the injury.  
> Sometimes it's hard realizing you need help.  
> Accepting that help can be the hardest thing of all.

With his microchip gone and a new respirator available, after a few days, Shalua deemed Nero well enough to leave the mako pod. Although the misadventure with Omega and Hellmasker had proved Nero was able to breathe without the respirator, he continued to wear it.

“His lungs are still healing,” Shalua explained. “He may not need it, but it will help speed his recovery.”

Vincent wasn’t so sure. Nero had thrown everyone into a blind panic when he’d stopped breathing while asleep his first night out of the mako pod. This had triggered an alarm which started him awake and solved the problem- though it had taken Shelke, Vincent, and two orderlies to calm him down. Despite this, Shalua tried to engage Nero in a sort of respiratory therapy by coaxing him to breathe without the mask for a few minutes each day. So far, it wasn’t going well, and Vincent thought he knew why.

“Don’t push him too hard on this,” he cautioned her. “The Restrictors used suffocation as a method of punishment with him.” 

Shalua’s remaining eye grew wide with horror. “Oh my gods, I’m so sorry! I had no idea.”

She made certain that Nero knew that he could refuse to participate if he didn’t feel well enough. Nero seemed to understand, and must have felt secure enough to believe her, for the next few times she asked, he politely declined.

Although the damage to his skin had long since healed, Nero’s recovery was far from over. He’d spent nearly a month in the tank, and while SOLDIER grade nutrient drip had kept him from starving, Nero had emerged looking even more emaciated than when the night patrol had first brought him to the WRO and into their lives.

Not trusting the quality of hospital food- though empty calories would not hurt Nero, and he wasn’t what anyone would call picky- Veld brought food to Nero as often as he could. Although he had no appetite, Nero dutifully accepted. After the first mouthful, however, he must have realized how truly hungry he was, and ate with gratefulness and humility that bordered on shame. Veld let it pass; survivor guilt wasn’t something to be persuaded away. Veld did not stay to watch Nero finish. It was obvious the boy wasn’t comfortable around him, though it took Veld several days to puzzle out why.

“I _am_ angry with you,” Veld said when next he came to visit, tone low and gentle, but with steel beneath. “Angry and hurt that you think so little of yourself. Whether you know it or not, you have value, and not simply as a soldier.”

That made Nero look up, confusion plain on what was visible of his face.

“Sir?” he rasped.

Despite himself, Veld smiled. Apparently he would forever be ‘Sir’ to Nero.

“I know it may not make sense to you, but there are quite a number of people who’ve gotten attached to you, myself included. Call it a Surface quirk, if you want,” Veld suggested when Nero’s perplexed look did not shift. “Up here, people matter. _You_ matter. So hurry up and get better so I can dress you down properly.”

Behind the mask, Nero's cheekbones lifted briefly and Veld felt the last stubborn holdout against paternal instinct crack and crumble away. Unable to reply verbally, Nero gave a nod and offered a salute. _Sir. Yes, Sir._

\--

With Nero stabilized, Vincent had no excuse not to go home at least overnight. Nero might not want to see him, but Veld did. If he were honest, they both needed a break. At long last they could breathe, relax a bit, dare to hope that Nero would heal in body if not in spirit. Nero wasn’t the only one who needed time to rest and recover.

Veld rose every day around six o’clock, even on weekends. Vincent didn’t always wake when Veld did; stasis was more like death than heavy sleep, and it took a while to come back to consciousness. Waking on his own, at six-fifteen, and finding Veld still in bed beside him was a bit of a shock. 

“Morning, spook,” said Veld, yawning. “You feeling better?”

“Yeah,” said Vincent, noting the shadows around Veld’s eyes. “First real sleep I’ve had since Nero went into the hospital.”

“Good.” Veld’s smile brought out lines of fatigue, etched deep into his face. He rose, moving slowly, grumbling a bit about old knees. “I’ll get the coffee started if you wanna shower first.”

Thinking of Vincent before himself, as usual. Vincent watched him walk out the door, and made a decision.

He managed to catch Reeve in the elevator, on his way to yet another meeting. 

“Vincent. How’s Nero?”

“He’s getting better, thanks,” said Vincent. “Slowly, but it’s progress. Reeve, I have a favor to ask.”

“Name it,” Reeve said, and listened while Vincent talked. 

He nodded. “Absolutely. I’ll email a new schedule to you both. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“I will. Thanks, Reeve.”

\--

Stopping in at the hospital a little later, Vincent sought out Shalua, and followed her down the hall, explaining the idea he’d had that morning. She smiled, and patted his shoulder.

“That’s great, Vincent. You tell him I said to take full advantage of it. Nero will be fine.”

Even though Nero wasn’t willing to see him, Vincent still checked in with Shelke, Nero’s constant companion, at least twice a day.  
“He’s doing as well as expected,” she reassured him. “He’s just...not ready for visitors. I’ll call you if he changes his mind.”

Vincent had to be content with that.

\--

He made certain to accompany Veld home that evening, and opened the door. Veld stepped inside, and stopped, Turk senses on full alert, not that it took any special instinct to smell the savory aromas emanating from the kitchen.

“Gods of Gaia,” said Veld, eyes wide. “You didn’t--?”

“Of course not. I had it catered.” Grinning, Vincent ushered Veld into the dining room, where the table, set for two, gleamed with silver and crystal on ice-white linen. “Sit, Veld. Tonight you’re not going to do a thing except relax.”

Veld complied, while Vincent did his best imitation of a waiter, bringing covered dishes out of the kitchen, serving the food and pouring wine, lighting two tall white candles. When he finally sat down, he raised his glass, wine glowing like garnet in the candle-light. 

“This is for you, Veld. For everything you’ve done for me since Nero turned up. Especially--”

His voice caught, and he took a moment to settle it. “Especially since Nero… Since he got hurt. I couldn’t have done it on my own. Thank you.”

Veld touched his glass to Vincent’s. “I’d do it again, Vince. Anytime.”

“I know. And that’s why I love you.”

Prime rib, baked fennel with creme fraiche, and a side of saffron rice, far surpassed anything Vincent could have managed on his own. Dessert was poached pears with honey and ginger. Veld critiqued everything, made notes, and thoroughly enjoyed himself.

“Thank you,” he said later, ensconced in his favorite chair, sipping from a mug of steaming black coffee laced with rum. “That was amazing. We need to visit that restaurant.”

“How about tomorrow?”

Veld chuckled. “I don’t think I could handle anything that luxurious two days in a row. But soon.”

\--

In the morning, Vincent watched as Veld woke, blinking, and glanced at the watch on his wrist. 

“Eight o’clock?” He looked at Vincent, eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”

“Nothing, except let you sleep. You were exhausted.”

“...Okay.” Veld sat up, and let out a grunt of surprise as Vincent pushed him back down. 

“Stay. You’ve got the day off.”

“Says who?”

“Says Reeve,” Vincent said. “As a matter of fact, you’ve got today and the next two days off.”

“The next--what?” Veld shook his head, pushing the blankets aside. “I can’t take three days off in a row! There’s way too much going on.”

What he was too polite to say was that so much time with Nero and himself had created a truly impressive backlog of work. Veld had been taking half-days and fitting in what he could while still caring for Vincent and his son. Now it was Vincent’s turn to take care of Veld.

“It’s being handled.” Vincent yanked the blankets back. “Judit’s taking over for you today and tomorrow, and Reeve postponed the meeting that was scheduled the day after that. You’re officially off of work, Veld. Now don’t make me sit on you.”  
He smirked, watching Veld’s face. “Unless you want me to.”

Veld glared, but he couldn’t hold onto it. A grin broke free, both lighter and more suggestive than anything Vincent had seen on him for weeks. “Well, if you’re offering….I guess I have no choice.”

“We’ve got three days,” Vincent purred, leaning over him. “Time to explore lots of choices.”

Veld laughed. “We’d better get started then…”

\--

Almost as hard as Vincent to shoo home to get some rest was Shelke. Shalua had not anticipated her sister to be as invested in Nero’s recovery as she was. Yes, they had been friends and squadmates in Deepground, but apparently their relationship ran deeper than that. Or maybe it was because they were the only Tsviets left.

Shelke had dropped everything almost as completely as Vincent had. Not caring if she was fired, she spent every available moment with Nero. No doubt she knew as his last remaining tie to Deepground, to his family, how precious she had become to him.

“Vincent loves you, you know,” she told him softly. Both of them lay curled together on the narrow hospital bed. Shelke was tiny, and Nero’s body so thin that they fit quite comfortably.

“No…” Nero wheezed. It required more air than he truly possessed to speak, reducing every word to a ragged whisper. “Unless that’s something different up here.”

“What happened was horrible, but it was an accident. Chaos is in his head the same way Omega’s in yours. Believe me, if he had known…”

“I’m not angry,” Nero rasped. “I’m scared. And confused.”

“Confused?” Shelke echoed, brow creasing.

“Why…” Nero had to stop and gasp for a moment. “Why didn’t he kill you too?”

“He thought I was a child,” she shrugged. “I’ve never met Chaos. Vincent thought he was rescuing me, just like you tried to rescue me from him. Kids are valuable up here, even after they grow up. You’re part of Vincent the way you’re a part of your brother.”

Nero thought about that. “I still don’t understand. Before this...he didn’t know I existed.”

“What did you think the first time you saw him?” Shelke wanted to know.

For many minutes Nero lay silent, collecting words and the air with which to speak them.

“I thought… I thought there must have been another brother the Restrictors hadn’t told me about. An older one, maybe. I thought… I thought…”

“You thought maybe he would like you, that you would like him. He had your face; maybe you’d have something else in common,” Shelke finished.

“Yes,” Nero rasped and huddled closer.

“Do you get it now?” she asked, rubbing her forehead against his. “Does it make more sense?”

“Yes…” He had to pause, take several labored breaths. “Maybe… Maybe he didn’t kill them personally,” he wheezed. “Doesn’t make them any less dead.”

A furious fit of coughing overtook him and Shelke thought seriously about calling a nurse.

“I’m not...angry. I’ve seen the big guy, the angry one. Haven’t seen the wolf. He’s got literal demons. I get that.” Nero paused, chest heaving. Hesitantly, Shelke laid a hand on his arm. Nero covered it with his own long-fingered hand. Shelke smiled to see that some Surface culture was rubbing off on him.

“I’m not angry,” Nero repeated, “but I can’t trust him. Either of them.”

“They didn’t set you up,” Shelke said, voicing his thoughts. “This wasn’t planned. Like you said, they didn’t even know you existed until a couple months ago, and that was long after Chaos ransacked Deepground.”

Too winded to speak, he nodded. Nero was aware his paranoia was just that, but it was an old and hard-learned reflex; difficult to shut off. Shelke just watched his face as if searching for a way to comfort, to explain, to help him past the pain.

“He just wants to help,” Shelke went on. “He wants to try to make it better.”

“He can’t.”

It wasn’t said in bitterness, or even despair. It was just a simple statement of fact. Their family was dead. They were not coming back. That was all there was to it.

“I can’t face him,” the words were panted and shallow. “Not now. Not yet. It hurts.”

Shelke nodded thoughtfully. “That’s fair.”

“Did anyone…?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s just you and me, and I was too worried about you.”

It was Nero’s turn to nod. “Also fair.”

“We’ll take care of it once you’re up to it,” Shelke promised.

“Okay.”


	48. Purgatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's closure, but it's hardly a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for death, depression, and general sadness.  
> I apologize in advance for your feels.

Vincent had been told to take as much time as he needed to be with Nero. However, now that Nero was recovering in the non-critical ward, Vincent wondered if he ought to at least attempt to go back to work in some capacity. His desk was probably lost to a mountain of incoming paperwork, and he didn’t even want to think about his email.

“Non-essential issues are going on the back-burner, anyway,” said Reeve, “until we’ve finished processing the rest of the Deepground survivors. If we absolutely require your input on something, we’ll call you at the hospital.”

That was fine, but for one problem: Nero didn’t want to see Vincent. 

“I’m sorry, Vincent,” said Shelke when he came to inquire, as he did every day. Her small face was pale, her eyes shadowed. “I know you’ve been waiting, it’s just...too soon.”

“It’s not your fault,” he said, because it wasn’t. It was _his_. “I understand.” 

Why would Nero want to see the person who’d killed his family? He was ill, physically weak, vulnerable. He wouldn’t want Vincent, or Veld for that matter, anywhere near him. The only Surface people he tolerated were Shelke, Shalua, and the unavoidable medical personnel who helped to care for him. Vincent ached to be among them, but Nero wouldn’t allow it.

The small affinity Vincent had for shadows was worse than useless. He could travel via shadows from place to place, but he hadn’t Nero’s skill at hiding in them. If he could have mastered it quickly, he’d have used it, without shame or hesitation, to keep an eye on his son without Nero knowing he was there. But he was no mage, and never would be.

“Will you call me or text me once in a while?” he asked Shelke. “Just to let me know how he is?”

“Of course I will.”

He had to be content with that. It didn’t stop him from hanging around in the hall, or looking in on Nero while the boy slept, and that was better than nothing.

Unable to shadow Nero, he shadowed Veld instead, in the mundane manner of sticking as close to his side as possible whenever he wasn’t at the hospital. After three days of nearly tripping over Vincent every time he turned around, Veld had had enough.

“Valentine,” he snapped, “if you were any closer we’d be wearing the same pants. What the hell is is going on?”

“Nothing.” Vincent backed up a few steps. “I just…I mean...”

Veld’s eyes narrowed. “Spill it.”

“I don’t want to be alone,” Vincent mumbled. 

The scowl on Veld’s face melted away. “I’m not going anywhere, spook. And neither is Nero. He’s going to be fine.”

“I know,” said Vincent, thoroughly unconvinced, but trying to fake it. “It’s just that...he doesn’t want to see me.” There was more he could have said, but his throat closed, and he was too old to keep breaking down at every setback, dammit. 

“Yeah, I know,” Veld sighed. “He’ll get over it.”

“Sure,” said Vincent. What was that old saying about when pigs fly? 

“Look,” said Veld, putting an arm around Vincent’s shoulders, “why don’t you talk to Tseng about setting up a wake for Weiss and Rosso, hmm? I know you want to do something for Nero. Why not that?”

He hadn’t thought of that. “Do you think they would?”

“I don’t see why not. Nero’s a Turk, or nearly so. That’s close enough in my book. But if they balk, tell ‘em it was my idea.” Veld winked.

Vincent mustered a wan smile, and left to seek out Tseng.

\--

Tseng, rather like Veld before him, seemed to have teleportative abilities that allowed him to be wherever he was needed with virtually no notice. At present, he was behind his desk and a mountain of paperwork. He did not seem surprised to see Vincent.

“Valentine,” he said, rising, as if Vincent outranked him, and not the other way around. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Tseng.” Vincent waved a hand. “Sit. Gods, you don’t have to...never mind.” He stopped to get his thoughts in order, and pulled a chair over to sit down. “I wanted to talk to you about holding a wake for Nero’s sibs. He’s in no shape for it right now, but as soon as he is...I hoped we could set something up.”

“Absolutely,” Tseng said with a nod. “I was going to suggest such a thing myself, but wasn’t sure this was the best time to do so. As you said, Nero’s still recovering. There’s no sense in holding one if he can’t attend. I’m sorry I haven’t been down recently to see him myself, but I didn’t feel it would be appropriate. How is he?”

“He’s in rough shape,” said Vincent, dancing around the fact that he hadn’t actually talked to Nero himself. “Getting better, but still weak. I have every confidence in Shalua and her team. It’ll probably be a few weeks before she releases him. In the meantime, I thought we could get the ball rolling.”

Tseng nodded. “I can pencil something in, alert his cadre. Forgive me, is there anything to be laid to rest, or will this be more symbolic? Also, I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with Deepground death rites. I’m assuming there is such a thing.”

“I’ll have to ask Shelke about the details. Nero just...collapsed the ruins over their bodies. I could search...see if there’s anything left. Personal effects, perhaps.” Gigas could help, he supposed. Possibly Ned could, as well, if he could pry him from Nero’s side. 

“Very good,” Tseng agreed. “Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you. You and Veld are still family, and Nero’s as good as. You have only to ask.”

“Thank you,” said Vincent, touched. “That means a great deal. I’ll get back to you.”

\--

Shelke left Nero’s side only when she had to. Vincent hated to inconvenience her, but this wasn’t a conversation to be had by phone, whether voice or text. Having observed her schedule, such as it was, he timed his arrival to intercept her on her way back from lunch.

“Shelke.” He kept his voice down, certain that if Nero heard his voice, it would upset him even more. “Can I talk to you for a minute, please?”

“What? Oh. Sure.” Shelke rubbed at her face and went over to the waiting area with him. Nero might be spending most of his time asleep, but it was clear Shelke was not doing the same.

“What’s up?”

“The Turks would like to hold a wake and funeral for Rosso and Weiss.” Perhaps, if Nero didn’t think it was Vincent’s idea, he wouldn’t reject it out of hand. “It’s an old Turk tradition. But Tseng needs to know about Deepground rites. There was...only so much Nero could do when we found them.”

The memory of Nero taking the prayer Vincent had recited, reshaping it into something with meaning for himself and his siblings, still burned bright in Vincent’s memory. It was a place to start, but no more than that.

“Can you fill me in on some details? Is there anything special we need to obtain, or to say…? We don’t want to offend you and Nero.” 

Shelke’s features creased in concentration as she thought. “There’s not much to tell, really. Something like that had to be kept low key so as not to attract the Restrictor’s attention. If someone died, their squadmates gathered up their stuff and distributed it to those they thought should have it. Nobody was allowed much in the way of personal effects, but it was better to pass it on than to have it confiscated and thrown away. Weapons were different. Those were usually deliberately broken if they weren’t already, and then thrown into the reactor well. The idea was that they wouldn’t be used again to hurt anyone. Those who wanted to could share memories about the person they’d lost. After that, you’d say goodbye, and speak their name for the last time. From that point on, they’d be just another tally on the Wall.”

It sounded plain, stark, even for a military society, but Vincent didn’t dare to criticize it. He’d learned that lesson, at least. 

“A Turk wake usually involves telling stories about the deceased,” he said. “So that’s not so different. I don’t know if I can find their weapons, though. I guess I could look.” 

He thought about her explanation for a moment. “What’s this Wall? A list of the dead?”

Shelke nodded. “Something like that. There are no names, just five line score marks. The COs were in charge of keeping count. I don’t know about the others, but Nero could name every person under his command, living and dead. He usually made the marks himself if it was someone in his unit.” She shivered, rubbing her arms a bit. “He always took it hard during Tsviet trials. I never understood it myself. It seemed like such a waste.”

“It was.” Nero had explained the trials during his inquiry. It was just one more thing about Deepground that had appalled both Veld and Vincent, but it had also given Vincent insight into Nero’s character. He was proud of him, whether or not it made any difference to Nero. He only hoped he’d be able to tell him so, someday, and have him understand.

“Thanks, Shelke. I don’t think we should say anything to Nero about this yet. I don’t want him worrying about it. How is he today?”

She shrugged. “I’m no doctor, but I do live with one. Shalua’s stopped crying in her sleep, which I’ve taken as a good sign. Nero’s tired, and I know not being able to shadow is freaking him out, but at least he’s too exhausted to really think about anything, which is probably just as well.”

Vincent winced. “Tell Shalua I owe her the most massive favor in history. I swear I’ll find a way to thank her for saving my son. And you, too, for keeping him company, since I...I can’t. I’d hug you, but...I know you probably wouldn’t want me to.”

“I don’t mind, so long as I know it’s coming,” Shelke told him with a tired smile. “I think Shalua’s just as happy as you are that Nero’s on the mend. She’s had a hard time trying not to let his case get to her. She feels like she owes you for bringing me back to her. She considers this a partial deposit on a debt she thought she could never repay.”

“Oh. Well. That was...Shelke, I’m not a particularly modest person, so I’m not going to say it was all in a day’s work. But as far as I’m concerned, if Shalua or you owed me anything at all, it’s been repaid a thousand times over. We’re even on that score.” 

He knelt down and opened his arms. “I’m willing, if you are?”

Smiling, Shelke closed the distance between them and threw her arms around his neck. It was a surprisingly vulnerable little squeeze, and she held onto him for a moment, perhaps to comfort herself as much as him.

“I’m sorry Vincent,” she whispered into his collar. “I know it doesn’t help much but...he doesn’t hate you. He doesn’t know what to think or feel right now. Just...he needs time.”

“I know. I want to believe that, Shelke.” He leaned back, letting her go. “Thank you for being his friend. And mine. Try to get some rest, all right? Ask him if he’s willing to have Max sit with him. She won’t judge or even ask questions, if he doesn’t want to talk. You need a break.”

“I’ll ask,” Shelke agreed wearily. “He doesn’t feel safe around people right now, but I’m sure he’d make an exception for her.”

\--

A week and a half later, Nero wasn’t much more recovered than he had been. He suffered the medical staff’s ministrations, and visits from Shelke, Max, and occasionally Veld. Although Vincent hovered continually outside his door, Nero could not bring himself to meet his father’s eyes.

“It’s not just you,” Shelke tried to reassure Vincent. “He’s like that with everybody right now.”

Although intellectually he recognized that this was probably true, Vincent couldn’t help taking Nero’s rejection personally. Nero had every right to hate him, even the sight of him. It crushed him, but Nero’s pain was more important than his own. He needed to lay his family to rest. Maybe then Nero could work on emotional recovery to go with the physical.

Tseng booked the hospital chapel for a wake and funeral service. He’d consulted Shelke on what to prepare. Nero wasn’t a full Turk yet. He and his late siblings had been SOLDIERs, Tsviets, and should receive the appropriate rites and honors.

There were a few Turk touches for the wake: alcohol, incense, and snacks for the vigil. There was no priest to lead sutras, no table for gifts for the deceased. Nero’s Deepground family would be leaving this life as they had entered into it: with nothing. All Vincent had managed to find- with Ned’s help- were some broken weapon fragments and Argento’s helmet. The shards of twisted metal lay on the altar at the front; a grotesque contrast to the pewter candlesticks that stood on either side. 

It was not a terribly large gathering, but there were more people present than Vincent had originally anticipated. There were plenty of Turks present: Tseng of course, with Elena at his elbow. Reno, as Nero’s mentor, had come, dragging Rude along with him. Nero’s cadre had turned out down to the last man, as had his SOLDIER friend and a few others from the training simulator. Shalua and Shelke were also present, as was Max. Veld nodded approvingly at the turnout; enough to show Nero that he was loved, but not enough to overwhelm him.

Nero barely paid attention to any of them. Lost deep in his own grief, he sat silent as a shadow, nodding distractedly when anyone offered condolences. The black button down shirt and dress pants that Vincent had bought for him seemed too large without his mako suit underneath. Although strong enough to stand, to dress himself, to walk, Nero’s lung capacity was still severely limited. Shalua had pushed his wheelchair to the chapel herself, with Shelke serving as escort.

As per usual, there was food, and an abundance of alcohol, but the mood was uncharacteristically subdued compared to most Turk wakes. Then again, Vincent reminded himself, these weren’t Turks who had died, they had been Tsviets. The rules were slightly different.

No one was talking much, unless one counted those assembled mumbling quietly amongst themselves. Without a priest to conduct the stages of the wake, to lead chants, everyone seemed slightly at a loss as to what to do. Nero sat in the wheelchair, parked where Shalua had left him near the shrouded altar. Beneath a plain white cloth lay the mangled remains of his family’s weapons. Shelke pulled a chair over to sit next to him. Vincent longed to do the same, but Veld kept tugging him back by the elbow, maintaining the buffer of space around Shelke and Nero.

Nero sat inert, head down, unmoving. If Vincent hadn’t known better, he would have thought the boy had fallen asleep. He tried not to stare directly as Shelke leaned and said something to Nero. Miraculously, he turned his head fractionally to look at her and nodded.

“No one...no one here knew Nero’s Deepground family,” she began, her small voice magnified by the silence. “It was my family too. For as long as I was down there they looked out for me, kept me safe.”

She folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them. “Azul used to call me ‘little sister’. I think that’s how he saw me, as the youngest of the three children he already had. We were his kids. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t have done to keep us safe. It was hard for him down there. Like me, he and Argento remembered what life was like on the surface. They never completely forgot the warmth of the sun, that people could be warm too. That got them into trouble sometimes…”

Shelke paused, took a deep breath. “It wasn’t easy for them to remember to hide their feelings, to withhold the affection they felt for us. You know, it’s funny,” she said, looking up at last. “I never received a hug or a kiss from either of them, but I knew without question that I was loved.”

Nero rested all his weight on one elbow, leaning a bit towards Shelke. She tilted fractionally in her seat so that their upper arms just touched. Several of those gathered had found seats so that they could listen.

“Weiss and Rosso...it took me a while to get to know them. They didn’t have the same sensibilities I did, but they weren’t cruel the way so many people were down there. They loved each other, they loved Nero, and they came to love me too.”

She had to pause, push her hair back, and Vincent realized she was struggling not to cry.

“They each saved me countless times. I could never repay them for all they did for me. I did my best to look out for them as their spotter, but…” Shelke drew a deep breath, a soprano version of Nero’s sob. Unable to hold her tears, two glistening lines cut down her face. “I couldn’t help them this time. There was nothing I could do to save them. I _wanted_ to save them, to save all of them. I thought I could help… I thought…” her voice broke and she looked down, struggling for composure.

“Wasn’t your fault,” Nero rasped. “I know you tried…”

“Shall we pray for their souls?” Tseng asked after Shelke had managed to collect herself a bit.

Nero shrugged as if to say “if you want”.

“That wasn’t something we could do down there,” Shelke explained. “Normally we just...sat up, waited until dawn so that they wouldn’t be lonely their first night dead.”

Tseng nodded. “We’re not a particularly religious bunch, but we look after each other, even after one of our number returns to the planet. Nero,” Tseng turned to him, “your family were not Turks, but you are. Will you allow us to honor your family?”

Nero swallowed hard, adam’s apple bobbing with the motion, and nodded. “Okay.”

Fishing in his jacket pocket, Tseng produced a string of beads. Folding his hands over them, he spoke the first words of the sutra, the other Turks joining in.

Nero remained silent, drinking in the words. Perhaps still fearful of presenting affection in public, Shelke gripped the arm of Nero’s wheelchair. It seemed to be enough for them. For his part, Vincent gripped Veld’s hand, for once glad of metal fingers that would not snap under his unnatural strength.

Perhaps an hour before dawn, everyone fell silent. Nero and Shelke sat quietly, waiting, as they all were, for the first fingers of sunlight to brighten the stained glass of the chapel windows. Colored streaks stretched across the carpet, seemingly reaching for Nero’s wheelchair. He looked up, staring at the now glowing colors of the windows. Without a word, everyone rose.

For a long moment everyone stood silent as the sun filled the windows, making them gleam. Shelke turned to Nero, a question in the tilt of her head. He nodded and she stood. Going up to the altar, she drew back the cloth to reveal the ruined weapons. In the middle lay a broken chunk of concrete. Folding the shroud, Shelke stepped back.

“We’re here to say goodbye,” she began, only the slightest quaver to her voice. “Omega carries them away from us on the rays of the sun, back to their homes, to the people who love them who’ve gone on before. We say goodbye, speak their names one final time, and let them rest.”

Nero stood and walked toward the altar, steps remarkably even. Even from the back of the room, the labored crackle of his respirator was evident. A mix of stoicism and stubbornness kept Nero from leaning on the altar table while he caught his breath. For a long moment he just looked at the broken chunk of concrete, at the rusty railroad spike of a nail. Although the fragment of wall was only slightly larger than a dinner plate, there was evidence of countless score marks all along the edges. The nail was nearly six inches long and badly bent, but its lethal point was still intact. After several minutes, Nero wrapped his long fingers around it for the last time.

“Argento,” he rasped, the harsh whisper accompanied by the sharper shriek of iron meeting concrete as he gouged a tally mark. A handful of voices murmured the name along with him.

“Azul.”

More joined in this time, but not enough to cover the screech of the second tally.

“Rosso.”

His voice cracked. Shelke’s girlish tone was strangely obvious among the chorus of voices. The concrete screamed. 

“Weiss…”

The repeat had been loudest, fullest with the final name, but Nero’s voice had broken.

“Deepground.”

It was no more than a suggestion of a whisper, virtually obliterated by the industrial keening of iron and cement as Nero slashed a fifth and final line through all four.

The nail fell from his hand to the carpet with a muffled ‘thud’. Nero stood there, hands clenched into fists, his entire body trembling as he tried in vain to hold back tears. He heaved a huge breath, the same inverted sob Vincent had heard what felt like a lifetime ago when Ned had gotten into his and Veld’s bedroom. Nero pulled in a second rasping breath, his whole body rippling with the effort. His long legs shook, folded, dropping him to his knees. Shalua stood, poised to act, but Vincent was already at his son’s side. 

Vincent checked his urge to scoop Nero up like a child. That would only embarrass him. Instead, he leaned down just a little, and laid a hand on Nero’s shoulder. He said nothing, silently praying that just this once, Nero would overlook the fact that his father was at least partly the reason they were gathered here to mourn Nero’s family.

Nero did not look up, all his efforts focused on trying to breathe through his tears. It wasn't working very well. Maybe he was in enough pain that he didn't care; was glad of the presence of a (nearly) living, breathing person, even if it was his family's killer. Either way, Nero clutched at Vincent's hand and leaned against him. Without thinking, Vincent put an arm around him. As soon as he'd done it, he froze. Nero, however, didn't seem to care, exhaustion forcing him to rest more and more of his weight on his father.

“Come on, son,” said Vincent, gently hauling him up to his feet. “You can do it.” He walked Nero slowly back to his chair and lowered him into it, taking the seat next to him. There he intended to stay, come hell, high water, king behemoths, or even Nero telling him to go away. 

Shalua came up behind Nero’s wheelchair, ready to push.

“I think he’s had enough,” she said gently, taking the handles. Nero did not protest, but Shelke bit her lip and turned to look at the altar with the crushed weapons. She opened her mouth, but got no further. Reno had appeared at her side, an empty packing crate in hand. It had once held rifles, it would suit well enough as an ersatz coffin for the symbolic corpses. With great solemnity, Shelke placed the ruined weapons inside and closed the lid. Reno set the crate on the altar, stepped back and saluted before returning to his seat. Shelke took a long look at the plain wooden box before mimicking Reno and raising her hand in salute.

Though no one had told them to, everyone gathered saluted as well. Shelke turned to take her seat again and stopped, arrested by the sight. For a moment she stood, staring, before her stoic mask cracked and she crumbled into tears. Leaving Nero in Vincent’s care, Shalua flew to her sister’s side and gathered her close. There was nothing to say, nothing more to do. Only Shelke’s muffled sobs intruded on the heavy silence that had fallen. No one said a word as Vincent pushed his son out of the chapel, followed closely by the two sisters.

\--

Nero spent the next few days in bed, shut away from the rest of the world. The wake and funeral had left him emotionally drained, and he had nothing left to offer. The only silver lining was that this allowed him several hours of deep, dreamless sleep; the nightmares unable to penetrate his exhaustion.

At first Vincent hovered at the door of Nero’s room, as he had before, but that didn’t last long. Nero had been rendered virtually catatonic; conscious but barely aware of what went on around him. He did not respond to anything; speech, touch, nothing seemed to affect him. Nothing seemed to matter. Vincent knew this feeling all too well.

The room had a reclining chair that could be used by a patient who was well enough to sit up during the day. Vincent dragged it over next to Nero’s bed and settled into it for the night. He didn’t expect to sleep. Despite emotional exhaustion, he was too keyed up. It lasted perhaps an hour, before his eyes closed and he was dead to the world - more so than usual.

It started with knives. It always did. That, and the smell: Old blood, formaldehyde, a suggestion of mako. Blinding light, the mirrored surface of the blade as it sliced into his flesh, the scream that died in his throat, held back by the leather strap over his mouth.

He fought, he always did, but he never succeeded, never got free. Panic made it hard to breathe, he swallowed air, and tried again, tried to force the scream out, and he couldn’t, he couldn’t…!

Nero stirred, prodded to awareness by the muffled cries and whimpers nearby. He did not want to open his eyes and face what came next, but he did anyway. It took him a moment to orient, to remember where he was, and it all came crashing down on him again. For a few precious hours he had forgotten, had gone beyond the pain. He might go past it, but there was clearly no escaping it. Apparently Vincent could not escape either.

Sitting up required more effort than Nero had thought possible. Taking the three steps from bed to recliner felt like a half marathon. Rather than prod a sleeping Turk and get a fist in the face for his troubles, Nero called out as best he could.

“Sir?”

Vincent struggled to rise, to escape the straps holding him to the table. His body was too heavy, the straps too strong. The knife came at him again, and the long, vicious needle that would take away his will to move. Sharp pain, and the world went black.

He was on his knees, waist-deep in dark mako, his heart hammering, breath coming short. A weight in his arms, pale face so like his own, golden eyes rolled back. 

“Nero! Nero, no, don’t, no gods, please….!”

“Vincent?” Nero rasped, struggling for volume. It still hurt to talk and took far too much air. Cautiously, he touched Vincent’s shoulder.

Vincent gathered Nero closer, the long body limp, hair trailing in the mako pool. He was dying, or already dead, black blood bubbling from his mouth. 

“No, Nero, please, don’t! Stay with me! NERO!”

Vincent cried out in fear and anguish, too deep asleep for the words to be intelligible. Nero thought he caught his own name somewhere in the jumble of syllables. Nero shook him, not so weak that he couldn’t do this much properly. He didn’t care if he was attacked, waking Vincent from his nightmare was more important. Sucking in air, Nero shouted:

“Dad!”

The voice shouting in his ear used a word he’d never expected to hear. His eyes shot open, blinking in the harsh light of the hospital room, to see Nero standing beside him, while the word echoed in his head. 

“What...what did you say?” Vincent grabbed Nero’s arms. “What did you say?”

Nero stood panting for a moment, trying to get his lungs to inflate again. The single word had cost him a lot of energy.

“Dad,” he managed at last. “S’what you are. Right?”

Vincent had used the word often enough that Nero had assumed it was the title he wanted. The gut-clenching thought that he had overstepped his bounds, or assumed too much washed over him.

“I am,” said Vincent, his voice shaking. “Yes. I am.” 

One hand reached up to touch Nero’s face. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

He took a moment to breathe, to get his heart to stop pounding. Carefully, he slid out of the recliner, arms around Nero, and guided him back to his bed. “It’s okay now. You can sleep. Everything’s okay now.”

It wasn’t okay. Nothing would ever be okay again. Everything was over, although the rest of the world hadn’t gotten the memo yet. Standing was starting to feel like way too much work, and though the touching still weirded him out a little, Nero let Vincent steer him back toward the bed. For a moment he lay flat on his back, just pulling air in and out. Omega materia or not, Shalua had said it would take time for his lungs to heal. Nero hated being caught somewhere between death and health, but that was where he was stranded for the foreseeable future.

Looking up, he noticed Vincent- his father- watching him struggle to breathe. Images overlaid themselves in his mind: discovering his dying siblings, and Vincent scraping his inert body off the concrete. It had not occurred to Nero until that moment that Vincent might be taking this mess just as hard, if in a slightly different way. It was still hard to look at him, to reconcile the man who said he loved him, who shared his blood, with the demon who had killed his family and destroyed his world.

“I’m sorry,” Nero rasped. “I didn’t… I just wanted…” It was too much; too many words, not enough oxygen and his apology dissolved into a fit of coughing.

“Don’t apologize,” said Vincent, “you haven’t done anything wrong. I was just...surprised to hear you call me that.” He reached over Nero for the call button. “Let me get Shalua or somebody to check on you.”

Nero caught his hand as Vincent reached, and held it. Unable to reply, he shook his head.

“S’okay,” he gasped. “I just… I just wanted it to stop…” Vincent had told him not to apologize, but it was all he had. “I’m sorry, dad.”

“You’re forgiven,” Vincent said. He turned his hand in Nero’s, so that his fingers gripped his son’s. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I’ve been there. I wanted to die...but I couldn’t. I slept for over twenty years. When I woke up, I found that there was still somebody who wanted me to live. I don’t expect you to accept me, but I want you to know that I’m glad you’re still here.”

Letting go of Nero’s hand, he took a step back. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Yeah,” Nero breathed, the word mostly static. He couldn’t process the words, couldn’t think about it now. His mind buzzed with exhaustion, numb from overload. Maybe later. It had to start making sense again some time- as much sense at the surface ever made. Vincent was trying. Nero supposed he ought to make an effort too.

“...but I want you to come back.”

“I will,” said Vincent. “I promise.”


	49. Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nowhere to go but up.

“You thought about what you’re gonna do once you’re released?” Max asked.

Nero did not answer right away. It was a fair question, the answer to which he hadn’t yet given much thought. Indeed, he’d been trying his hardest not to think at all. Sometimes he was able to achieve a blessed state of apathy, too exhausted to do anything but lie there and let the seconds tick by. Now that he was out of the mako pod, he didn’t sleep quite as much, and the days seemed so long. The rational side of his brain knew that at some point he would recover enough to be discharged, but Nero had trouble believing this would happen any time soon.

“No,” he wheezed. His throat and chest felt better, but it still took far too much effort to speak or to move. Max resettled against him. She and Shelke were his primary visitors besides Vincent. His father. Dad. Vincent was his dad. It was what he wanted to be called, though it was still hard to think of him in any sort of personal context. It wasn’t that he disliked Vincent, they just knew so little about each other. Max was much easier to parse, or at least more easy going when it came to Nero’s inability to comprehend the nuances of Surface life. They’d been watching cartoons, snuggled together on the narrow hospital bed. It was a painless way to concentrate on something else, and though the plotlines were often nonsensical and imaginary, it was still a chance to try to absorb some Surface culture.

“It probably won’t be for a little while yet,” Max said, apparently in effort to reassure him. “Doubt you could move back into the Turk barracks, though. You’re not up to fighting form, and the barracks are for active-duty personnel only. The cave’s sort of out of the question right now, so that’s a no go too.”

Nero nodded. His shadows had yet to return, making him feel as if he’d truly lost everything that had ever been precious and familiar. Shelke might still be alive, but she had her own family to love and care for her. He did not want to detract from her happiness. If this was what it was like to be normal, Nero was feeling cheated.

“I know Vin wants to take you back to his house,” Max went on. “You know he’d do his best to help, and you’d eat well.” She grinned at this and Nero briefly smiled back. Veld had taken it as a personal challenge to fatten him up. However, although Veld’s cooking was delicious, it was sometimes hard to eat. Even for one with a SOLDIER metabolism, there were times when food had no appeal.

“Doesn’t have to be like last time,” she said softly. “You could set some ground rules. Make a chore chart or something. Treat it like you’re going to be roommates instead of each trying to play some sort of role that isn’t familiar or necessary. You may be Vincent’s kid, but you’re a grown man, and he shouldn’t dictate your every move. Also, you shouldn’t have to be a guest in their house twenty-four-seven. You get to do your own thing, but without disrupting their lives too much. You’re all adults, you can figure it out, and if you need me or Shelke to translate, we will.”

That made him chuckle; the action making his chest ache, but no longer prompting a fit of coughing.

“I know Vincent probably wants me around,” Nero said quietly- volume hurt. “I know it’s ‘cause he thinks he owes me or something.”

“Well, that and you’re his kid. I dunno if you noticed, but up here, there’s a lot of automatic attachment that goes with that. He likes you. He wants to see you happy. And yeah, he probably does feel like he owes you for a lot of stuff.”

If one thought of it in terms of trying to make up for killing his son’s family, then yes, Vincent did have a lot of atoning to do. Nero considered a moment and nodded.

“Still hard to get my head around,” he admitted.

It was Max’s turn to nod. “I’m told you never really get it until you have kids of your own.”

“I’m _never_ having kids of my own.”

“I know, babe, I know,” Max said soothingly. “Just...think about it, yeah? Not about having kids, but about maybe going home with Veld and Vincent. I think they’d like to try again and actually have it work out this time.”

Nero thought about that and eventually nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

\--

A few days later, Shalua organized a meeting of sorts in Nero’s room. Max was at class, but Shelke, Veld, and Vincent found places to sit and looked at Shalua expectantly.

“I think you’ve reached the point where you can continue your recovery without specialized care,” Shalua began, addressing Nero directly. “You don’t need the respirator to survive, and you can go long stretches without dark mako exposure. However, I’m not ready to clear you for duty just yet. You’re nowhere near ready to return to work. What I’d like to do is discuss some options with you.”

“Okay,” Nero said, not knowing how else to respond.

“Well, you have at least two options,” Shalua began. “First, you could transfer to a recovery facility. There are a number of them in Edge. One of few that offers mako therapy is Healen Lodge. It’s very nice there. It would be a calm, peaceful environment. It’s mostly former SOLDIERs and others who have suffered adverse effects from mako, so no one would be likely to single you out. I think you’d do well there.

“The second option is to return home with Vincent and Veld. They’ve told me that they’d be more than willing to host you again for as long as you need. I don’t know if that’s something you’d be interested in?”

Nero was silent for a long moment, arms unconsciously moving to cross over his midsection.

“There’s no wrong answer,” Shelke told him gently, nudging his foot with hers. “This is about what you’d rather or rather not. Nobody’s gonna be angry or offended. We just want what’s best for you; whatever will get you better faster.”

Nero took a deep breath and nodded, doing his best to fight the anxiety down. He knew that. His brain knew that. It was still hard to turn off the reflex.

“Do I...do I have to decide now?” he stammered.

“No of course not,” Shalua said kindly. “Think about it, and let me know what you decide.”

Nero glanced briefly at Veld and Vincent. Vincent gave him a hopeful look.

“This is about what you want, Nero,” Shalua’s voice cut into his thoughts. “This is your decision. You tell me what you want.”

“Okay,” Nero said, hoping that everyone would leave so he could think.

He had no idea what he wanted.

\--

After they had gone, Nero thought about what Shalua had said, and what Max had said. The idea of going to yet another new place- no matter how nice- full of strange people and strange rules that he did not yet know and might not be able to comply with made him feel ill. Without his shadows he had no way to defend himself, no way to escape if the need arose. He would be trapped in an unfamiliar place, with unfamiliar people. Every quantity was an unknown. Nero shuddered and swallowed back the acid rising in his throat. No. No he couldn’t go to Healen Lodge. He wouldn’t.

Despite their first ill-fated attempt at sharing space, Vincent and Veld were at least known quantities. Their house had been the only other marginally safe space on the Surface that he’d known so far. Maybe he was just lonely and desperate. Maybe...maybe he really did want to be in a place where people wanted him around, no matter their reasons or motivation. 

It said something that they wanted him back in their house, especially when he was of no obvious use and was likely to be a burden on their resources. Hell, he’d already caused them more than enough trouble, yet they both kept coming back to see how his recovery was progressing. With Shelke and Max, he could understand their concern to a degree. With Veld and Vincent...despite Max and Vincent’s repeated attempts to explain blood ties to him, it was still difficult to comprehend that Vincent would find him important or valuable just because they shared DNA. 

Everyone kept trying to compare it to himself and Weiss, but it wasn’t the same at all. Nero had never known a time when Weiss was not nearby. Weiss had always been there, as had Rosso. Maybe they hadn’t always been nice to him, but they would have never let anyone else hurt him. They were a team. They looked out for each other. They knew each other inside and out; no secrets. Vincent was as alien to him as his own lost Mother. Nero could have understood if his Mother had reappeared and wanted to become part of his life. She had done the hard work of carrying and birthing him. Vincent had not even known he existed until… Nero shook his head, not wanting to think about that.

Had he been in Deepground, he would not have been allowed to rest, to think. He would have had to put it behind him and soldier on or else face the wrath of the Restrictors. Maybe it was time to suck it up and forge ahead. If he waited for the emotional wound to heal, he’d probably never do anything ever again.

Vincent and Veld weren’t Restrictors, they weren’t even his Commanding Officers. They were...safe to a degree. If nothing else, he knew what sort of danger they posed. Besides, there was nothing they could do that could possibly hurt more than this. If they wanted him in their house, wasn’t that something? When had anyone ever wanted him just because?

No one had ever cared for him like this before. The hospital had gone above and beyond, but it was the sort of standardized treatment that he was used to- just nicer. Deepground had never spent that kind of time and resources that the WRO and Vincent and Veld had spent on him.

Why? He could not fathom the reason. Shelke had told him a hundred times that it was because he was important, valuable, loved, and not just as a weapon. Sometimes he felt as if he almost understood it, but it was difficult to get his brain around it. Until this point, every small comfort had come with a heavy price. Vincent had assured him again and again that Nero owed them nothing; that the debt was Vincent’s to repay. Nero didn’t see how this was possible, unless he thought of it as compensation for killing Weiss and Rosso, in which case it was barely a drop in the ocean.

Nero jumped at the sensation of a hand on his shoulder, but there was no one there.

‘Peace, child,’ said the voice inside his head. ‘It is I.’

‘I’m not a child,’ Nero mentally grumbled. ‘I have a name.’

Omega seemed amused. ‘Apologies. After several thousand years, everyone seems young.’

Nero had to admit such a lengthy perspective would indeed render everyone young by comparison. ‘What do you want?’

‘I think the question is what do you want?’

Nero did not answer. Omgea knew perfectly well what he wanted: his family alive and around him. However, that wasn’t possible. This hiatus of grief and recovery would not go on indefinitely. He could not live in the hospital, yet he could not go home. His home was gone.

‘Is it?’ Omega pressed.

‘Stay out of my damn thoughts,’ Nero retorted. Yet Max had raised the same point.

‘I don’t know,’ he confessed. ‘Deepground’s gone, and I’m still too weak to go back to the Turks.’

‘Your father and his husband would take you to their hearts, if you would but ask. It would be their privilege to care for you.’

‘I couldn’t,’ Nero thought, horrified. ‘I couldn’t ask!’

‘I have not borne witness to the many injustices committed against you,’ Omega said, ‘yet I have watched your dreams and shared your memories. I can understand your reluctance to trust.’

‘Thank you, I think.’

‘If you must nurture anger in your heart, bear it toward me. It is because of my bond with Chaos that your life only was spared.’

‘I’m not too happy with either of you,’ Nero grumbled, ‘but there’s nothing to be done about it.’

‘No-one, not even I, can return your loved ones to you. The power of Life and Death is not mine to wield. If it were in my power, I would restore them to you for you have suffered much in your few years.’

Nero nodded, not knowing what to say to that. Omega’s regret felt real, and for some reason, that helped a little.

‘...thanks.’

‘Will you return, then, to your father’s house?’

Nero shrugged. ‘I don’t really have anywhere else to go.’


	50. Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Physical therapy.  
> Sort of.

Nero needed to learn to breathe without his respirator. He didn’t need it anymore. His lungs had healed, now all he needed to do was rebuild his breath capacity. Even minor physical exertion left him breathless. He’d already fainted a handful of times from lack of oxygen. The real problem was the panic attacks that would trigger if he went barefaced for too long.

“I’m not sure what to do,” Shalua confessed to her sister. “Vincent told me the Restrictors used suffocation as a method of punishment with Nero. How am I supposed to engage him in any kind of therapy without triggering him?”

Shelke chewed her lip as she thought. “Nero and I aren’t strangers to ‘tough love’. You may actually be dragging things out by catering to his comfort.”

Shalua looked vaguely horrified, but nodded. “Go on.”

“I think if he could see that he can survive without the mask for more than a few minutes, he’ll be okay. It won’t be fun, but he’s used to doing things the hard way. It might help him start to rewrite a different response to an old fear.”

Shalua nodded thoughtfully. “You’ll have to run that by Cissnei, but you may well have an idea.”

Shelke smiled a little. “I hope so.”

\--

“Why do you want me there?” Vincent asked, perplexed. “I’ll just make things worse.”

“That’s something we’re hoping to address,” Cissnei explained. “We’re hoping we can help Nero reinterpret this as a positive experience.”

“So...you want him to recalibrate his perception of me as well?”

Cissnei nodded. “Something like that.”

“Well,” Vincent said, unconvinced. “If you say so.”

“Try to think of him as a rookie Turk,” she suggested. “What would you do per Protocol 51?”

Vincent thought about that. Protocol 51 was procedure for what to do when a fellow Turk suffered physical or emotional trauma. For some reason, he hadn’t thought to apply that in this case. Nero was his son, and it was difficult to see past that primary fact. His first instinct was to gather Nero to his heart and hold him close. That might have worked on a child who had been carried and cuddled and demonstratively loved. Nero had not. Hugs were part of a new and unfamiliar language for him. Neither of them had enough history with the other for that to work.

It occurred to VIncent that he wouldn’t just randomly hug one of the new recruits. He might have done it for his partner, or apprentice, but only if invited. He might put a hand on their arm, at most perhaps loosely drape an arm around their shoulders. He’d coached kids through gunshot and knife wounds, talked them down from adrenaline highs. Was this any different?

Yes, he thought to himself. _He’s my son._

However, Nero was also an adult, a general, a man in his own right. If nothing else, Vincent reflected, he really needed to figure out a way to treat Nero like an adult as well as family. Maybe this could be a start.

“Okay. What do I need to do?”

\--

Vincent tried to think of this as a sort of mini op. Cissnei, himself, and Shelke would all be working it. Cissnei would run it with Selke standing support, and himself- oddly- taking point. Vincent wasn’t sure he was the best candidate for this.

“I’m no good with this sort of thing,” he protested.

“You just need to keep him calm and breathing,” Cissnei assured him. “You don’t need to psychoanalyze him.”

 _Rookie Turk,_ Vincent chanted to himself. _Rookie Turk…_

Nero had been briefed about the exercise and sat on the edge of his bed waiting for them.

“Hey, Nero,” Cissnei greeted him cheerfully. “How you feeling?”

“OKay,” Nero replied. The new respirator distorted his voice far less than the old one, lending only the slightest electronic edge.

“Is it okay with you if we try some breathing exercises without your mask today?” We can reschedule. It’s up to you.”

Nero glanced at Vincent, then at Shelke.

“It’s your choice,” Shelke assured him. “There’s no wrong answer.”

Nero thought about that, touched his mask, looked at them each in turn and nodded. “Okay.”

Taking a deep breath, Nero unlatched his mask and pulled it off. Vincent had to give himself a mental slap. Looking at Nero without his mask was like looking into a mirror.

“Nero,” Cissnei said gently, “you don’t have to hold your breath.”

Nero’s cheeks stained dark gray at the mild admonishment. Slowly, he let his breath out. He gripped his mask tightly, hands shaking. Cissnei nodded to VIncent. It took him a precious second to change gears, to try to put himself in the role of mentor, not parent.

“It’s okay,” Vincent began, doing his best to keep his voice low and even. “Can you take a breath for me?”

Shelke had edged into Nero’s personal space a bit; not touching him, but letting him know she was within reach if needed.

Nero’s knuckles had gone white, but he obediently inhaled. He sucked in a shallow breath and held it.

“Good,” Vincent told him. “That’s good. Can you let it out again?”

Nero exhaled, letting himself deflate naturally. His face was becoming dark.

“If your chest hurts, don’t hold it,” Vincent said. “Breathe in. The air’s not going to hurt you.”

“It does hurt,” Nero gasped and promptly began coughing. At once he clapped the mask over his face, heaving panic breaths.

“It does?” Vincent asked, edging a bit closer himself. “How?”

“It burns,” Nero panted. “The air’s hot and dry. It feels like...like…” He shuddered, throat convulsing, and Vincent worried he might be sick.

“This isn’t punishment,” Cissnei reminded him. “Nobody did anything. This is just a muscle you haven’t used before. It hurts sometimes after you work out, right?”

Nero nodded.

“This is the same thing. You’re exercising, and you’re going to be be a little sore until you build up your strength.”

“I know,” Nero mumbled. “It’s just...hard to remember.”

“Yeah,” she said kindly. “Ready to try again?”

Nero nodded.

“I want you to try something different this time,” Cissnei went on. “I’d like you to give your mask to Shelke. If you feel short of breath, try this instead.” Reaching, she handed him what looked like a rescue inhaler.

“Max and Shalua customized this inhaler. It will spray a fine mist of dark mako. Use it if the air feels too hot and dry and you’re struggling to breathe.”

Nero took it and used it once under Cissnei’s instruction. He put his mask back in place to comment:

“That’s pretty close to wearing my mask.”

“Ready to try again?”

Nero took a steadying breath and nodded. “Okay.”

No one had to prompt him to inhale this time, but the breaths were excessively slow, shallow, and deliberate. It wasn’t that Nero didn’t trust those gathered, but his body had been unable to accept plain air his entire life. It couldn’t be easy to fight back the reflex. He managed a handful of breaths before fumbling for the inhaler.

Nero looked to Shelke, who held his mask on her lap.

“It’s okay,” she told him evenly. “I know it hurts, but I won’t let anything happen to you. _We_ won’t let anything happen to you.”

Vincent wanted nothing more than to reach and rub Nero’s back with one hand. In his own mind, it was a calming gesture, deep rooted from the time he was an infant. However, it would only frighten Nero more, so Vincent clenched both fists in his lap.

Nero used the inhaler again, as if trying to draw air through it. He managed a few gasping breaths before he began to cough. His face and throat were rapidly staining black. Shelke stood, mask gripped in both hands, but stopped short and looked to Cissnei. The former Turk nodded and Shelked lunged forward to press the mask over Nero’s nose and mouth.

She stayed within his reach as he struggled to recover his breath. Unable to hold back, Vincent got up and sat down next to Nero as close as he dared. Hesitantly, he stuck out one elbow until it touched Nero’s arm. Nero didn’t seem to notice. He was coughing so hard he was shaking. His throat spasmed and he tore off the mask long enough to retch bile onto the floor.

“I’m sorry…” he stammered, still heaving panic breaths.

“It’s okay,” Cissnei assured him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

Shelke was quiet, a slightly guilty look on her face. This had been partly her idea, and was therefore partly her fault. The last thing she had wanted to do was cause Nero more pain. Shock-and-awe might work in Deepground, but Nero shouldn’t have to keep suffering.

“What if...what if we could modify the mask?” she said, even as the idea formed. “You could dial down the mako flow little by little until all you’re pulling in is plain air. It might be easier to gradually get used to it rather than try to do it all at once.”

Nero didn’t respond, but edged a bit closer to her. Shelke obligingly leaned closer until their bodies touched.

“Does that sound good?”

Breathing finally approaching normal, Nero nodded.


	51. Home Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the only one he's got.  
> And really, it could be worse. There are people here who love him.  
> They're just not _all_ the people he loves.

The day that Nero was released from the hospital, Vincent himself brought him home. He took the shadow route, since Nero couldn’t, carrying him by virtue of Gigas’ strength, Ned leading the way.

“I can walk,” Nero insisted as Vincent gathered him up.

“Nope. I didn’t get to do this when you were little, so I’m doing it now.”

“But--”

“Hush, child.”

Nero rolled his eyes. Vincent grinned and stepped into the shadow-tunnel.

He’d already set up the back bedroom to be Nero’s room, for as long as he might want it. New blackout shades and curtains hung at the window; he’d cleared the closet and the dresser drawers, but left the books, and added a few he thought Nero might like.

The bed linens and the rug were new as well, and he’d brought in an armchair upholstered in black leather. Veld had picked it out, choosing a design that had bit of a military air to it, reasoning that Nero might find this more comfortable and familiar.

Vincent had a special gift for him, waiting for when the time seemed right. It wouldn’t do to hit the kid with too much new stuff all at once.

Ned brought them out of the tunnel straight into Nero’s room.

“Good job, Ned.” Vincent set Nero on his feet, watching to be sure he wasn’t about to pass out. There was no logical reason to think he might, but, well, he could be forgiven for worrying a bit, surely.

“Thanks.” Nero blinked, looking around the room, his gaze taking in every detail. “You changed things.”

“It’s kind of a ‘welcome home’,” Vincent said. “If you don’t like something, or you need anything else--”

“This is fine.” Nero sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumping a bit. “I’ll take good care of everything. Thank you.” He reached down and scooped up Ned, setting him on the bed beside him. Ned flopped down, his head on Nero’s knee.

“Why don’t you rest for a while?” said Vincent. “I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”

“Don’t you have to go back to work?”

“I’m taking a few days off.”

“Because of me.” Nero’s white face flushed a bit. “You don’t have to do that, I’m okay.”

“It’s fine. They owe me some time off anyway.”

Nero nodded, silent again. His golden eyes had lost their luster, tarnished by grief and illness. His hand stroked Ned’s head idly, but the action seemed automatic. He’d lost a lot of weight while in the tank, and it wasn’t as if he could spare any.

“Are you hungry?” Vincent asked, hoping for a positive reply. 

Nero shook his head. “Maybe later.”

Vincent sat down next to him, his arm just touching Nero’s. “Do you want to talk?”

Another shake of the head. “I just want to be alone.”

That wasn’t surprising, though it was a little disheartening. Still, everyone grieved in their own way. Nero needed time; Vincent could give him that.

He spent an hour or so working on reports, just to get them out of the way. As he finished the last one, he glanced up, and found Nero sitting on the floor not far away, Ned in his lap.

“Hey,” said Vincent, folding up his laptop.

“Hi.” That was all, but it was a start.

Vincent puttered around the house for the rest of the day, finding odd jobs like tightening a leaky faucet or decluttering his side of the bedroom he shared with Veld. Nero ghosted after him; wherever Vincent went in the house, Nero tagged along, silent unless Vincent asked him a direct question. Vincent put him to work folding laundry, which he did with military precision, his hands going through the motions while his eyes stared into the middle distance, black-rimmed and shadowed.

Then it was noon, and Vincent was officially out of busy-work to do. Nero sat staring out of the window, Ned curled up on top of the folded laundry beside him. The house was so quiet, every little pop and creak of the woodwork sounded like a gunshot.

“Nero,” said Vincent, “I have something for you.” He went to the master bedroom and came back with a large box, setting it in front of his son.

Nero looked at Vincent, then at the box, finally reaching down to open it. He blinked, and began to pull items out of the box.

There were three different sizes of sketch pads, a full set of drawing pencils, and a set of colored pens. Nero studied each item as though he’d never seen anything like it before - and he probably hadn’t.

“There’s an eraser in there, too,” said Vincent, “although you probably won’t need to use it much.”

There was that slight flush again, and just a hint of a smile. “I don’t know…”

“I thought maybe,” said Vincent, “you might draw pictures of Rosso and Weiss to put at the shrine. If you want to.”

Nero swallowed, blinking hard. He nodded, and carefully gathered everything back into the box. “Excuse me,” he whispered, and fled, so quickly he might almost have gone by shadow. His bedroom door closed softly. Vincent’s heart kicked once, and he sighed, resisting the urge to follow. He couldn’t hover over Nero for the rest of his life, hard as it was to admit.

\--

He’d just finishing reorganizing the bookshelves when he heard the scuff of boots behind him. He turned. Nero stood in the doorway, a stack of paper in his hands.

Vincent rose. “Can I see?”

Sitting side by side on the sofa, they went through the drawings one by one. He’d done them quickly, strong, flowing strokes of pencil and ink, touched here and there by color: Sky blue for Weiss’s eyes, ruby red for Rosso’s hair. They moved across the pages, walking, laughing, sparring, shouting, every action and emotion caught by Nero’s deft touch.

“These are amazing,” Vincent murmured, laying them out on the coffee table. The last one made him grin: It showed a squeaky popping out of a length of cloth, Rosso’s startled shout almost loud enough to hear.

“That was Ned,” Nero said, fingering the edge of the drawing. “He hid in her shirt one morning…” His voice cracked, and Vincent leaned over so their shoulders touched.

“Ned’s a bit of a troublemaker, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, a little.” Nero drew a breath, and pulled another drawing out of the pile. “He liked her. There was this one time, after a training session, when he got into the showers…I thought she was gonna skin him…” 

“Tell me,” said Vincent, and sat back to listen.

When Veld came home hours later, he found them sitting in the living room, a blizzard’s worth of sketches surrounding them, pens and pencils scattered over the coffee table.

“Hello,” said Veld. “Anybody hungry?”

“We ate,” said Vincent, watching a drawing take shape on the pad on Nero’s lap.

Veld’s eyebrow rose. “And nothing’s on fire?”

Vincent waved a hand at him. “Shoo.”

Veld went to the kitchen. A moment later he stuck his head around the door frame. “Valentine, peanut butter and jelly is not dinner.”

Vincent shrugged. Veld shook his head and withdrew.

By ten o’clock, Nero was nodding in his seat. Vincent helped him pack away his art supplies, while Veld found folders to keep his drawings in.

“You’ve got real talent, Nero,” Veld said, handing him the folders.

“Thank you, Sir,” said Nero, and yawned. “Sorry…”

“To bed with you,” said Veld, heading down the hall.

“Um, Veld…?” Vincent flashed Turk signs at him, behind Nero’s back. Veld’s eyebrow went up again, but he nodded.

“Eh, why not?”

It was a tight fit, all three of them in the same bed, Nero between Veld and Vincent. Nero fell asleep almost immediately.

“Not every night,” Veld whispered.

“I know,” said Vincent. “And he knows.” He smiled, his hand reaching for Veld’s. “Thanks, Veld.”

“He’s a good kid,” said Veld. “Night, spook--wait. What’s that?” He twitched, watching as something shadowy with yellow eyes popped up over the side of the bed.

Vincent snickered. “Ned.”

Ned scrambled up and settled on top of Nero, chirping softly.

Veld sighed, lying down again. “Of all the things I expected in my old age, this wasn’t one of them.”

Vincent made certain, the next morning, to snap a picture of Veld with Ned sleeping in the curve of his arm.


	52. Growing Pains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It may be home, but Nero's still learning how to feel safe.

The first week, Nero slept, ate, and occasionally ghosted about the house before collapsing again into an exhausted sleep. Too weak to manifest his shadows, he slouched about in pajamas that were too wide for his narrow body.

“I don’t know how you guys deal,” he huffed. “It’s so scratchy!”

Veld- with Max’s help- had picked out a few things for Nero during his hospital stay. He and Vincent had renovated the back bedroom, turning it into a space that Nero could inhabit and claim as his own. Nero, being Nero, had fretted and flailed, insisting that it was too much, that he could never pay them back.

“No,” Vincent had told him firmly. “I am paying you back. This doesn’t even make a dent in what I owe you. I’ll never be able to make up for all the diapers I didn’t change, the little league games I didn’t coach, the school plays I didn’t attend.

“Nero, I owe you a whole damn childhood, not to mention a family. This is the best I can do for right now.”

It wasn’t a lecture per se, but Nero lowered his head, chastened, and muttered a breathy:

“Yessir. Thank you, Sir.” A pause. “...what’s little league?”

\--

If Vincent longed to make up for the lost days of Nero’s infancy, he got his chance about a week later. Exhaustion had kept Nero’s sleep heavy and dreamless. Once his body stabilized, however, his brain came fully back online, and with it a lifetime of neuroses, nightmares, and bad memories.

The first time Veld heard the whimpering, he didn’t immediately realize what it was. Then static had crackled over the speaker, and the gil dropped. Vincent had bought a baby monitor to ensure they would know if Nero stopped breathing during the night (a not unfounded fear). Both men turned to squint sleepily at the monitor as it emitted a muffled sob. Vincent cast an anxious glance at Veld, who nodded. Without a word, Vincent got up and went out into the hall.

Nero’s bedroom door stood open, as expected. Nero lay curled tightly in the middle of the bed, hopelessly tangled in blankets.

“Nero?” Vincent called softly. The boy didn’t stir, but a pair of yellow button eyes popped up out of the darkness. Ned, at least, was awake. The creature skittered out of the way as Vincent came over and laid a cautious hand on Nero’s.

“Nero?”

It didn’t pay to try to invade the space of a sleeping Turk, much less a sleeping Tsviet. Vincent fully expected Nero to start awake in a panic and was not disappointed. The hand he’d touched shot up, seizing Vincent by the collar. Vincent responded by reflexively grabbing Nero’s wrist with one hand, and angling the other around his arm in order to break his grip. Still physically depleted, Nero’s hold faltered, and Vincent was able to get him to let go. That didn’t stop Nero from attacking, the boy’s free hand driving into Vincent’s stomach. Any calming words Vincent had planned escaped in a rush of air. He tried to hold Nero back by the shoulders, but this earned him a kick that almost connected. Avoiding Nero’s foot meant both of them tumbling to the floor, Nero pulling the tangle of sheets and blankets with him.

“Nero!” Vincent gasped, both of Nero’s hands latched around his neck. “Nero, it’s okay! Calm down!”

Nero didn’t listen, just squeezed harder, not even crying out when his head connected with the corner of the bedside table as they rolled over each other on the floor. Vincent could break his hold, but it would also mean breaking fingers at the least, Nero’s arm at the most. Vincent was trying to come up with a third option when a shout and a stab of light assaulted his senses.

“ _Nero! Stand down!_ ”

Vincent squinted through the blinding lamp light to see Veld standing in the doorway, fingers still poised on the switch. Nero shrieked at the light, but froze at Veld’s command. Vincent took the opportunity to scoot away.

Veld approached slowly, cautiously, and crouched down so that he was not towering over Nero quite so much. Nero scrambled to the nearest shadow and clawed at it, clearly trying to dive into it, but it remained as closed to him as it would have to Veld. Beneath the baggy T-shirt, his chest heaved in too-deep panic breaths, and his whole body shivered as he pressed his back to the wall, terror written in every line of his face.

“It’s okay, kid,” Veld told him in a low monotone. “No one’s gonna hurt you.”

For a long moment they stared each other down: terrified gold into impassive bronze. The moment shattered and Nero shrank in on himself, pulling his knees to his chest and hiding his face in them, wrapping his arms around his legs. He didn’t even try to disguise his sobs.

Veld jerked his head at the lightswitch and Vincent rose to shut off the lights. The room descended into blessed dusk, only the light from the hall invading the safety of the manufactured shadows. Reaching, Veld shook a blanket loose from the pile of bedding and draped it over one arm.

“It’s okay, kid,” he repeated. “It was a bad dream, that’s all. No one’s gonna hurt you. You’re not in trouble. It’s okay.”

Nero did not move, did not even look up. Veld edged closer and slowly, deliberately, spread the blanket over Nero’s head and shoulders like a cloak. Nero uncurled enough to clutch the edges and pull the blanket tight around himself. Rather than lean against him, Veld again very slowly and deliberately raised a hand and placed it on Nero’s shoulder. The boy flinched, but didn’t move or try to shake him off.

“Just breathe,” Veld told him gently, lightly rubbing his shoulder. “It’s alright. It was just a bad dream, that’s all.”

“No,” Nero managed at last, mask thick with static from his efforts to breathe through his tears. “It wasn’t. I’m still here.”

Instinct compelled Veld’s arms to pull Nero close, to gently press his head down to rest on his shoulder. Nero stiffened, unsure, but relaxed as Veld ran one hand over his hair. Helpless, unwanted, Vincent sat down nearby.

“ _I’m_ glad you’re here,” Veld said softly. “I hate to lose good men.” Instinct had guided him to hug Nero, impulse made him hold out his free arm to Vincent. “Had enough of that already.”

Vincent scooted closer and leaned against Veld gladly. “Not sure I qualify,” he muttered.

“Sir?” Nero asked, sounding confused.

“You’re a good man, Nero,” Veld said firmly, fixing him with his eyes. Turning to Vincent, he stretched to kiss his cheek in a rare display of open affection. “And you’re good enough.”

Despite the pain still squeezing his heart, Vincent smiled. Leave it to Veld to bridge the gap between them. Diplomacy wasn’t an often employed Turk skill, but this was one instance where forcing the issue would do no good. Maybe Nero wasn’t ready for a direct hug, might never be, but this was more than he’d hoped for. It was close enough.

\--

When Nero had finally fallen into deep, for-once dreamless sleep, Vincent harried Veld back into their own bed.

“You’re not sitting on the floor all night.”

“I’m not that old, Valentine,” Veld grumbled. Vincent pretended not to hear the crackle of Veld’s knees as they walked back to their bedroom.

“How do you do it, Veld?” said Vincent, as they slid back under the blankets.

“Do what, exactly?”

“Comfort him. Talk him down. How do you know what to do?” Vincent laid his head on Veld’s shoulder and sighed. “I feel so useless.”

“Oh, I learned with a couple of people,” said Veld, “and it was mostly trial and error. Felicia used to get flashbacks, those last few months….memories of Kalm.”

“I remember. I didn’t have any idea how to help you with that, either.”

“You helped, spook.” Veld slipped his arm around Vincent’s shoulders. “Just being there, to talk to, drink with, just…being there. It helped.”

“If you say so. It’s just so frustrating!” Vincent tilted his head back to look at Veld. “Who else? You said a couple of people.”

Veld gave him a weary smile. “You.”

“…Oh.” Of course. He was no stranger to nightmares. To this day, his memories of the lab and the experiments were a tangled, roiling mess that only occasionally made sense. He never knew what might trigger one. It could be weeks between them, or only a few days.

They’d thrown Veld off his stride for a while, when he and Vincent had begun sharing a bed again, but somehow he’d coped, and by now it was almost routine. Veld always seemed to know what to do, what to say, to make the horror fade, the fear dissipate, to help Vincent find enough peace of mind to go on.

“So you’re saying I’ve been a learning experience?”

“Something like that.” Veld settled more comfortably next to him, warm, solid, reassuring. “Get some sleep, Vince. I think Nero will be all right for the rest of the night.”

“Okay. But, Veld…next time is my turn.” Because he could learn, too.

After all, he had a master to teach him.


	53. Sure Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is bonding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ye gods, for some reason this one took forever.  
> I blame a mix of Real Life and Writer's Block.  
> Thank you all for your patience.  
> Long chapter is long.  
> Enjoy.

It had been a long time since Vincent had formally been a Turk- nearly thirty years- but there were aspects one never forgot. He had not been there when Veld had lost his wife, daughter, and left arm, but he had been present to help others grieve. Nero had recovered enough to return home, but was still too weak to return to duty. Even his shadows had deserted him- though Cissnei speculated that might have as much to do with depression as it did physical recovery. Every Turk was allowed time to themselves to mourn and recover, and then they were drawn a little at a time back into the land of the living.

Nero had lost his home and family in one fell swoop, as well as undergone a serious physical ordeal. If he needed more time, Vincent was willing to grant it. However, Nero had recovered to the point where he no longer needed to stay in bed all day. That being the case, Vincent decided it might be time for a day out.

Nero’s sleep schedule was erratic at best, and he still leaned heavily toward nocturnal. That coupled with his sensitivity to bright light meant an evening trip would be in order. When Veld came home, it was to Vincent sitting on the floor with the various pieces of his father’s old Death Penalty rifle spread out neatly on several sheets of newsprint.

“Spring cleaning?” Veld asked.

“Field trip,” Vincent clarified. “I thought Nero and I could do a little father-son bonding over target practice.”

Veld’s expression had turned carefully neutral, a sure sign that he was a bit dubious about this idea. “You think he can manage that?”

He didn’t mean physically.

“It’ll just be a short walk in the woods,” Vincent assured him. “My dad used to take me out and let me plug tin cans with his old Lariat. We never did a lot together, but that always stood out as a good memory.”

“Can Nero handle a rifle?” Veld asked, genuinely curious.

“We’ll find out. As far as I know, he’s never used one. He’s depleted enough that he shouldn’t disappear anything, and he might have better luck holding something that requires two hands.” That was Vincent’s logic anyway.

Veld nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll make you some sandwiches.”

\--

Veld made a bit more than sandwiches. Despite his protests that he could manage a campfire just fine, thank you very much, Vincent relented with only mild annoyance when Veld pulled rank and undertook the task of filling the cooler for them himself. Vincent busied himself rounding up the necessary equipment: sleeping bags, mess kit, backpacks, and so on. Nero seemed bemused by it all.

“So we’re doing what now?” he asked, Ned looking on curiously from his arms.

“Going camping,” Vincent repeated. “You’ve never been out of Midgar, right?”

“No. I mean yes. I mean...right,” Nero stammered and Vincent couldn’t help smiling a little.

“I thought maybe you’d like a change of scenery. Plants and trees are supposed to be therapeutic or something, aren’t they?”

Nero shrugged. “That’s what Cissnei says.”

“Well, can’t argue with doctor’s orders. It’s only for the weekend. You can stand two days away from civilization, can’t you?”

“I guess…”

Nero seemed to be actively contemplating the in’s and out’s of this. He’d probably had some sort of combat survival training at one point, but odds were low he’d ever had to put it into practice. The Restrictors had kept the Tsviets on a very short leash.

“I’d like you to try it,” Vincent pressed. “If you don’t like it, we don’t have to do it again.”

Nero considered, and nodded. “Okay.”

\--

They left first thing the next morning. Despite Nero being more comfortable in the dark, it would take time to get past Edge’s borders, across Kalm’s plains, and out to the foothills of the mountains. If they left now, by the time they got there, it would be light enough to pitch the tent, and take a nap if they wanted before night fell. The dark didn’t bother Vincent; Galian and Chaos could see as well at midnight as they could at noon. Still, there were some things that were easier to do while the sun was still out.

Nero hunched in the passenger’s seat of the rental car, trying to watch the scenery while avoiding the sun. As they neared the city limits, Nero’s slack posture of teenaged indifference grew more and more taut. Mask had removed his microchip, Omega had taken care of the explosive attached to it. There was nothing to detonate should Nero set foot outside of Midgar. However, he seemed to be having trouble reminding himself of this.

“Look,” Vincent said, hoping to distract him. Obediently, Nero lifted his head.

“Wow…”

The freeway had been built at plate-level, and so allowed an unobstructed, panoramic view of the broad green stretch of grasslands and gray peaks of the mountains rising in the distance. Nero stared, transfixed and only turned to look back several minutes after the road had evened out and they were speeding along at ground level once more. Automatically, he put a hand to the back of his neck. The expression on his naked face was difficult to read. Mostly, he seemed surprised that he was still in one piece. Slowly, he lowered his hand and turned around to look out the windshield again.

Vincent wanted to ask if everything was alright, if Nero needed anything, but couldn’t think of a good way to do so. Instead, he let the silence hang, and the moment drifted away, left behind them somewhere on the road.

“I think...I think I get it now,” Nero said quietly. Vincent turned briefly to look at him, but Nero was focused on the scenery. “What Az-- what he was talking about when he tried to tell us about the Surface.”

“Your Foster father?” Vincent asked.

Nero turned to look at him. “What’s a Foster father?”

Of course.

“Foster parents look after kids who don’t have any family to take care of them,” Vincent said, trying to explain. “They don’t outright adopt them- sometimes they do, but not always. Mostly they just take care of children until somebody else adopts them.”

“Huh.” It was a typical response that meant Nero appreciated the concept of the thing, even if he didn’t necessarily understand it. “Sort of like the nurses and tutors in the children’s ward.”

“Probably,” Vincent allowed, trying to remind himself that no human child could survive without any affection at all, and therefore the caregivers had to have had some semblance of a heart. Hopefully life at Deepground didn’t begin with a weapon in one’s hand.

“What’s ‘adopt?’”

Oh gods. For some reason, Vincent had not prepared for this.

“People adopt children who don’t have any family to take care of them. Children who are all alone in the world, without parents are called ‘orphans’. If they’re lucky, a Foster family will take them in and care for them, if they’re really lucky, a family- Foster or otherwise- will adopt them. They’ll legally become part of the family, take their surname, and be treated by the other family members as if they’d always been there. They belong to that family, but not as if they were a possession. After they’re adopted, they have people who care about them and a place to call home.”

Nero thought about that for a minute. “...am I an orphan?”

Vincent tried not to wince. The question cut unexpectedly deep. “Technically, no,” he answered, trying to keep his voice even. “I’m still here. I didn’t know about you until long after you were born, so my name’s not on your birth certificate as your father. Biologically, you’re not, but on paper you are. I…” The words caught in his throat, and he thought about swallowing them back. “I could adopt you, if you wanted.”

Nero seemed perplexed, his brows creased in confusion. “Why? I mean, yeah, okay, you guys have been taking care of me since…” he trailed off into painful silence for a moment. “It’s not like I’m completely helpless. Not anymore.”

“I guess it’d be more symbolic at this point,” Vincent agreed. “It’d make some things easier; I could make medical decisions on your behalf if you weren’t able to yourself, or sponsor you for a lot of other things that have nothing to do with being a refugee. I know you don’t need us at this stage of your life but… Having parents, even adopted ones, is like having a safety net. There’s always someone who will have your back, someone who will always love you no matter what, and there will always be a safe place to return to if you need it. You’d...have that anyway. We don’t really need to put it on paper for that to be an option. But we could, if you wanted to. If you don’t, that’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine, but Vincent had no business railroading him into something like that. He might still be weak, might be missing his shadows, but Nero was an adult by anyone’s estimation. He could, in theory, fend for himself. He might be out of the running for the Turks, but there were a host of less-glamorous- and far safer- career paths to pursue. He didn’t need Vincent hovering over him as if he were a toddler intent on testing his own mortality. Nero had turned away and was staring out the window again.

“I think this is what he must have been talking about,” Nero said at length. “The blue, the green, and the sun overhead. I can see it now. I think I get it. Kind of.”

“Good,” was all Vincent could manage. Nero leaned back against the seat, something like a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The single word might not have been deep or inspiring, but apparently, it had been enough.

\--

There was still plenty of day left by the time they pulled up to the empty lot off the side of the road. Vincent had no use for tame camp sites full of tourists and children. He and Nero did not need a woodland already cleared of wild things. After all, they would be the scariest things in the forest.

Vincent did his best to check his pace. Nero’s legs were just as long as his, but the boy got winded easily. They had to stop a few times to rest while Nero used his inhaler before they arrived at a suitable place to make camp. Nero was nothing if adept at following orders and obeying instructions. It took far less time than Vincent would have thought possible to pitch the tent, arrange their gear, and stack the beginnings of a fire. There were still a few hours of daylight left, and Vincent’s first instinct was to go out and shoot some game for their supper. Nero, however, looked exhausted.

“How ‘bout a nap before dinner?” Vincent suggested. “I’ll wake you once the sun’s gone down.”

Nero did not have to be told twice. Crawling into the tent, he lay down on his sleeping bag and was dead to the world within minutes. Vincent debated the merits of catching forty winks himself. He wasn’t especially tired; didn’t need to sleep at all, really. He could keep watch while his son slept. He could call Veld and let him know they had arrived safely. There were a number of other things he could do, but he hated to stray too far from Nero. Nightmares still plagued him, and Vincent was all too familiar with how that went.

Rummaging in his pocket, he pulled out his PHS- Nero had reminded him to bring it- and dialed Veld.

“Hello? Hey Veld. Yeah, we made it fine. The drive was okay. We talked a little. Yeah, well, ‘a little’ is about all we can manage. He handled the hike fine. Wore him out, though. He’s asleep now. Yeah, I’ll tell him. You too. Bye.”

And that was that. There wasn’t anything else to do that didn’t involve leaving the campsite. Well, he was always nagging Veld to relax. Perhaps he ought to take his own advice? Pocketing his phone once more, Vincent crawled into the tent himself. Nero lay half-curled on his side of the old army tent, fast asleep. Stretching out on his own sleeping bag, Vincent put his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes. It didn’t last. Nero hadn’t bothered to put his mask on before going to sleep. He didn’t technically need it, but still wore it overnight just in case. Surely it wasn’t creepy to watch someone sleep if that someone was your own kid? Resettling, Vincent counted Nero’s breaths until his own became equally soft and even, and despite his best efforts, his eyes drifted closed.

\--

Vincent still had nightmares; not as often, but they did still happen. They had evolved somewhat since Cloud and the others had freed him from the coffin in the Shinra mansion’s basement. For a long time the dreams had been a blur of pain; cold sharp things accompanied by endless darkness and the bitter tang of his own mako-laced blood.

When Veld reentered his life, the dreams had shifted to accommodate him. Fire and ash and Veld’s terrified voice had been stirred into the already gut-churning mix. And then Nero had appeared. There were a few variations involving his new-found son. They ranged from the terrible yet manageable scenario of Nero cursing him for slaughtering his Deepground family, to visions of Nero dying horribly. Nero’s death was either directly his fault, or the result of inaction on Vincent’s part. Either way, Vincent always started awake from those fighting back the urge to be sick.

This one was new. There was something incredibly important he had forgotten. Something to do with Nero. It was critical that he remember, Nero’s life might be in danger. He had to remember, had to do something immediately!

Vincent started upright into a strange, small, dark space. Panic seized him even as he reached for Galian’s ability to see in the dark.

“Dad?”

The single word cut through the tangle of his thoughts like a razor. Reality swept into the vacuum the fear had left. He was in a tent, not the crypt. He and Nero were camping. Turning his head, Vincent didn’t need Galian’s help to make out Nero’s eyes glowing gold in the darkness like one of his squeakies.

“You okay?”

Vincent took a deep breath and shook off the last of the nightmare.

“Yeah, fine.”

Nero just looked at him, still and silent. Well, they were supposed to be getting to know each other better. It wasn’t as if Nero hadn’t just watched him start terrified out of a deep sleep.

“I still get nightmares sometimes,” he confessed.

Nero nodded, the gleam of his eyes briefly winking out. “I know how that goes.”

“I know you do,” Vincent said, smiling a little. “I wish you didn’t.”

The shadows shifted as Nero shrugged. “They’re just dreams, they’re not real.”

“I almost wish they were,” Vincent mused. “At least I could shoot them.”

Vincent had expected Nero to snicker, or perhaps smile, but the boy remained silent and thoughtful.

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” Nero said. “I just… I’ve been thinking.”

“Did it hurt?”

The golden eyes rolled in exasperation, but a brief white smile flashed beneath them.

“I was thinking...if my shadows don’t come back…”

“They will,” Vincent assured him.

“If they don’t come back,” Nero continued, voice oddly calm and steady. “I’ll be normal- or something close to it- for the rest of my life. I can handle dreams, but what am I going to do about real, physical threats?”

“You know how to fight,” Vincent replied.

“Yeah, but…” Here Nero paused, looked away. “I never got good at the weapon I was assigned.”

“That wasn’t on you. You were set up to fail. It wasn’t right or fair to try to make you use a weapon you weren’t comfortable with.”

“Maybe so, but if I’d figured out guns, I’d at least have something to fall back on,” Nero argued quietly. “It’s like favoring one hand over the other. I’m left handicapped.”

Vincent would have argued the point, but realization had ignited his mind.

“Are you saying you want to learn to shoot?”

Nero shifted uncomfortably, but nodded. “I feel like I should try.”

\--

Vincent had a small, yet slightly alarming collection of firearms in the gun safe he shared with Veld. Given the nature of their trip and Nero’s past history with guns, he’d only packed what he deemed the essentials: the Lariat, the Winchester, the Longbarrel, and his father’s Death Penalty. All were two-handed rifles. The Lariat and Winchester were especially good beginner models; few moving parts and sturdily built. Hopefully Nero would be more comfortable with something he could hold with both hands- especially since he wasn’t likely to lose it in his shadows.

“Okay, well, do you know how to disassemble, clean, and reassemble a gun?”

Nero nodded. “Yeah.”

“Okay, show me.” Spreading some newspaper on the ground, Vincent placed the Lariat in front of Nero. It might be dark, but they could both see what they were doing. He watched as Nero picked up the gun, examined it, and then slowly took it apart, deliberately placing each piece where he could find it again. It didn’t take him long at all to clean, oil, and replace each piece. It wasn’t a record by any stretch, but he’d perfectly done what Vincent had asked him to do.

“Nice work,” Vincent commented. “Try this one.”

Nero took apart and cleaned all four rifles under Vincent’s watchful eye. He seemed to take extra care with the Death Penalty.

“It won’t break,” Vincent assured him. “It’s old, but it’s sturdy.”

“It’s _magic,_ ” Nero replied. “Can’t you feel it? The little feather at the end is affecting the whole thing.”

“Is it?” Vincent blinked. He’d never noticed. Death Penalty models usually came with a phoenix pinion fixed to the sights, but he’d never stopped to consider why. It probably had something to do with the gun’s ridiculously high accuracy and ability to take down even the largest enemies with just one bullet.

“There’s a spell woven into the pieces,” Nero went on, gingerly picking the rifle apart. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

It took longer than the others, but Nero reverently put the whole thing back together. Breathing a sigh of relief, he handed it back to Vincent.

“You okay?”

Nero nodded. “Yeah.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

\--

Shouldering the rifles, they walked a short distance to a clearing ringed by old trees. Vincent set up a couple of tin cans on a low branch to use as targets.

“Okay,” he began, coming over to help Nero settle the rifle in his hands. Picking out the Lariat- the smallest and simplest of the guns- he handed it to Nero who hefted it with some trepidation. Almost automatically, his hands began to tremble. Nero had gotten better at physical contact. He no longer flinched at every touch, but he still tensed automatically as Vincent stepped into his space.

“Like this,” Vincent said calmly, placing his hands over his son’s. Nero adjusted his hold, the tremors easing slightly.

“Breathe in, let it out,” Vincent coached. “One… Two…”

He nudged Nero’s finger and felt him squeeze the trigger. The rifle fired with an almighty BANG and bucked violently, but Nero didn’t lose his grip. An eyeblink later, one of the empty tin cans leaped off the tree branch, spiraling to the forest floor. It wasn’t a bullseye, but he’d plugged it solidly in the body. Nero grinned widely.

“It worked!”

“That was good,” said Vincent. “I knew you could do it. Let’s try it again.”

He went to pick up the can, as well as a couple more, and set them all up on the branch. Going back to Nero’s side, he said, “Go ahead.” This time he stepped back to let Nero handle the gun on his own.

Nero bit his lip and shouldered the rifle a second time. His hands were shaking, making the barrel waver slightly. Closing his eyes, he tried to do as instructed. Taking a deep breath, he let it out, paused, and pulled the trigger. Without Vincent behind him, the kick made him stumble a half-step back. A dull PLUNK echoed through the trees as another can tumbled to the ground.

“Excellent,” said Vincent. “You’re getting the hang of it. Try another one.” 

“Another shot, or another gun?”

Vincent thought about that for a moment, then reached down and picked up the Death Penalty. 

“Here. Remember what I’ve showed you so far, and let’s see how you do with this.”

Nero eyed the gun warily. “I dunno, Dad. You sure that’s a good idea?”

“I think you can handle it. You’re doing well so far. And the gun itself...well, I didn’t know about the magic, but I always felt stronger with this in my hand. Trust the gun, Nero. And trust yourself.”

Nero didn’t trust either the gun or himself, but he took a deep breath and tried to do as he was asked. The shaking in his hands was worse now, the pinions of the phoenix feather lighting up like individual wires, burning bright with an uncast spell.

“Dad…” Nero said, clearly afraid.

Vincent eyed the gun. It never acted like that when he used it. Maybe he was asking a bit too much of Nero.

“Let me,” he said, cautiously taking the gun out of Nero’s hands. He aimed and fired in one quick, smooth motion, putting a bullet straight through one of the cans. 

“Okay, that’s normal.” He examined the gun, wondering if he was missing something. His father had owned it, and passed it down to him. Surely Nero ought to be able to use it as well.

Or not. Nero still looked spooked. If possible, he was even paler than usual. This was supposed to be a confidence-building exercise, as well as a practical one. The last thing he wanted was to further traumatize the kid. 

Still considering the gun, he had a thought. Maybe the gun had been fully charged with magic, something he’d never stopped to think about before. Nero was a mage, but his affinity was with shadows, not mechanical weapons. Using a gun like this might be asking for trouble. The kid was young, and his own magic had recently deserted him. He probably didn’t have the strength to handle Death Penalty --and might never.

“Never mind,” he told Nero. “You don’t have to use it. Try another one instead, or if you’d rather stop now, that’s fine, too.”

Nero stumbled the half-step toward Vincent and latched both arms around him. He was still shaking hard, breath coming too deep and heavy as he fought to calm down.

“Thank you,” he mumbled into Vincent’s shoulder, voice small.

Vincent put both his arms around Nero, tentative at first, then pulling him close.

“No problem, Nero. Like I said, this is supposed to be a little vacation. It should be fun, and relaxing. We don’t have to do _anything_ that you don’t want to do.”

“I’m sorry. I just… I’m sorry. Thank you. I’m sorry.” The shaking had subsided but wasn’t completely gone. His breathing had slowed a little, but he was clearly still upset. “If...if I’d gone on… I dunno. It might have exploded, or I might have hit you, or me or...or something and…” He trailed off and shuddered.

“Hey.” Vincent pulled back a little so he could see Nero’s face. “It’s fine. I shouldn’t have asked. This might be a surprise to you,” he went on, a wry edge coming into his voice, “but I don’t always make the right decision. If you think something’s wrong, you can tell me, like you just did. That’s the smart thing to do. I’m glad that you spoke up. You’ve got good instincts. More than that - you noticed something about the gun that I never have, as long as I’ve owned it. So you’re one up on me, kid.”

That got him a nervous little laugh. Nero stepped back and nodded. “Yeah. Right. So. Maybe one of the others that isn’t magic?”

“Sure. In fact, why don’t you choose which one? If you feel something’s off, say so. Use the one that feels right for you.”

“Okay.” Nero looked over the other two rifles, heft each one, and eventually selected the Winchester. “Let’s try this one.”

\--

“I thought you couldn’t cook,” Nero observed in his usual benignly tactless way.

“I can’t,” Vincent agreed. “At least, nothing fancy. Campfire food is about the only thing I can do.”

“Cool.”

It was a rare chance to use a knife, even if it was only to skin and dress the monster they’d shot. The rest would require opening a tin can, and even Vincent could do that. The campfire crackled brightly, sending a faint spiral of smoke toward the stars. Nero had graduated from tin cans to vermin and had taken down several creatures himself. He wasn’t quite as far-sighted as his father, nor as quick, but the reflex would come with time.

“Did you and Veld ever do this?” Nero asked, stirring the baked beans so they wouldn’t burn to the bottom of the pot.

“No,” Vincent replied, stabbing the meat with a metal skewer, “but my dad and I did back when I was a kid.”

“Really?” Nero cocked his head, curious.

“My dad was busy a lot when I was young,” Vincent said. “He worked a lot. He was an academic; teacher, researcher, that sort of thing. We didn’t get to spend a ton of time together, but this was one of my favorite memories.” He gestured broadly at the woods. “We’d go camping, just the two of us. We’d hike, fish, hunt, do manly stuff.”

Nero had absorbed enough cultural awareness and gender bias humor that he cracked a smile.

“My dad taught me to shoot,” Vincent went on. “It’s okay if that’s not your thing,” he hurried to add, “but I want you to be able to handle a gun safely. You should be able to defend yourself.”

He did not mention Nero’s absent shadows. He didn’t have to. Nero nodded thoughtfully.

“If you want, I can teach you to fish,” Vincent offered. “No guns involved, just patience. And it’s just as rewarding, if not more so. Fish generally taste better than monsters.” He didn’t mention having to clean the fish. It wasn’t his favorite part of the sport, but Veld had a rule: You kill it, you clean it.

Nero nodded. “Okay.” A pause. “What...what was he like? Your dad, I mean. And your mom. You knew them both, right?”

The question brought images to Vincent’s mind, faces that he hadn’t seen in his mind’s eyes for some time. Decades, in his mother’s case. She was more of a feeling, now, than a picture. 

“My dad was...really smart,” he began. “The kind of smart that wins awards and...well, he was always looking for new things. And old things. Old stories, myths, things our ancestors knew that we haven’t got a clue about. 

“Sometimes he was kind of distant, but that wasn’t because he didn’t care about us, about me and my mom. It was because his mind was always busy, always thinking about ten things at once. When he did take time for me, though, he was pretty easy-going. He knew how to laugh, and he was patient.” A smile touched his lips, as the memories flowed. “He actually had a really sharp sense of humor, but most people didn’t know that. I was...kind of a disappointment to him.”

Nero’s brows creased at this. “How?” he asked before he could think better. “Er...you don’t have to answer that. It’s just… By Surface standards, seems like you did okay to me?”

Vincent tapped the side of his own head. “Headmates. They’ve been there a long time. Caused a lot of trouble for me when I was a kid. I couldn’t explain, and my parents didn’t know what to do with me. It was years before I got any kind of control over Mask and the others. That’s….why my mother left.”

He paused, taking a moment to busy himself with the food, filling a bowl for Nero and one for himself. 

“Things got crazy, and I caused a lot of trouble at school. Dad was really upset, and Mom...I’ve always thought she blamed herself. One day she just...walked away. Didn’t say goodbye, didn’t take anything with her. We never found out where she went, or if she…”

He cleared his throat and looked at Nero. “So we’ve got something in common, you and I. Both our mothers disappeared.”

There was nothing to say to that, so Nero edged a bit closer and leaned against him in solidarity. It was the only thing he could think of to do. Oh wait- no it wasn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. There was a time when he would have wondered if Vincent’s mother and his own were together somewhere. He knew better now. Vincent’s mother was more than likely dead, as for his own… There was no way to know.

“Thanks,” said Vincent, leaning back. “ I think...I think my dad and your foster dad would’ve been friends. Wish they could’ve met. Probably would have shared embarrassing stories about the two of us.”

“Probably,” Nero agreed, several instances coming to mind.

“I wish my dad could’ve met you,” said Vincent, turning to look at Nero. “He would’ve loved you too. I know he would. All he really wanted for me was to have a good life. I think he was afraid I’d never have that. And in some ways he was right, but...there’s you. He’d be glad.”

Nero’s shy smile flickered in and out of shadow as the warm light of the campfire danced across his face. There was still so much he didn’t understand but at that moment, he felt like one small piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. He understood a little bit what Vincent had been trying for so long to say. Maybe not all of it, but some.

“Thanks, Dad.”

It didn’t feel like enough, but Vincent smiled. It would do.


	54. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nero returns to a role of leadership.  
> It's tough being a General.  
> Also, being in charge does not mean you can't ask for help.

Nero had reached the point where he was driving everyone- himself included- crazy. His shadows had still not returned, but Shalua nonetheless declared that he had made a full physical recovery. Without his shadows, there was no point in reapplying for the Turks. No one said so, it was simply understood. It wasn’t that he couldn’t do the work- he could, or would soon be able to- it was that he was too visually obvious. His looks made him stand out. Even with makeup, there was no getting around his eyes. Colored contacts could not correct black sclera. He would only have to be seen once for someone’s memory to be instantly branded. Therefore, he returned to what he knew.

The percentage of native Deepground troops had turned out to be much lower than anyone had expected. Most, it seemed, were imports like Shelke. A number had been kidnapped as small children, but the vast majority seemed to have been abducted as teenagers or young adults.Those with working memories of the surface had managed to integrate back into their former lives reasonably well. However, those who had been too young to have solid memories or who had been born in Deepground were proving a challenge. It had been months now since they’d been rescued, and not all of them were happy to be above ground.

It wasn’t that he’d forgotten about them, there had just been so many other things that kept on happening. Now finally deemed fit to return to duty, Nero’s first instinct was to see to his men, or what was left of them. There were fewer than fifty who had not had any luck at all with integrating. They could only be trusted with each other- and sometimes not even then. Something inside Nero cringed at the armed guards watching the holding area where the surviving troops were being kept.

He must be getting soft. There was a time when armed guards and snipers on the catwalks would have registered as mere footnotes; something so commonplace it was barely worth noticing. It also reminded him of a second rather painful truth: he was defenseless. No weapons were permitted, and his shadows had not come back. Although Nero was reasonably sure he could take any of his men in a first fight and win, he didn’t especially want to. He didn’t think he would have to, but the nagging fear was there all the same.

He had asked the guards to treat it like an inspection; to have his men ready and waiting in formation. When he entered the detainment area, all of them stood ready in their old uniforms. Their helmets had been taken, but he could have identified each soldier even in full armor. Instinctively, he counted heads, tallied rank, and tried to be glad that the men before him were still alive. He could mourn those who were missing later.

He’d worn his respirator despite not needing it. His men had never seen him barefaced and might not have recognized him without it. His mako suit was gone, so he’d scavenged a Deepground uniform in his size and added the correct insignia. Hopefully they wouldn’t think he’d sold out.

All of them watched him with eager, disbelieving eyes. They’d not been told anything since Nero and Vincent had descended into Deepground to lead them to the surface. For all they knew, their commander had been killed. None of them would ever dare to speak out of turn, but the question was plain enough without words.

“At ease,” Nero told them. “It’s me.”

Nero had anticipated this would be difficult, but found himself unusually tongue-tied. Normally he had no issue addressing his troops, but this was somehow different. Best to start with the truth.

“It’s alright,” he assured them. “I’m not hurt.”

To demonstrate, he unhooked and removed his mask. There was a collective intake of breath. They’d all seen him gag for air, chained to the Punishment Pole. All of them held their breath as Nero dropped the mask to the floor.

“I don’t need it anymore.”

None of them had ever seen his face and they all gaped for several minutes. Surprisingly, a cheer went up, all of them shouting and jumping in place. Once the initial spike of alarm had subsided, Nero found himself smiling and fighting back a sudden lump in his throat. After they had calmed down, one of them asked the obvious question:

“Where are Immaculate and Crimson?”

Nero was silent for a long and uncomfortable moment.

“I couldn’t save them. I’m sorry.”

The dead silence was a marked contrast to the joyful shout. Nero took a deep breath, and did his best to explain.

\--

When Nero returned from his first day with the surviving Deepground troops, it was as if a switch had been flipped. Veld and Vincent had only ever seen glimpses of the general Nero had been in Deepground. Perhaps it was the difference made by knowing others depended on you, of having responsibility for lives not your own. Either way, Veld wondered if they’d seen the last of the shy, frightened kid that had tried to follow his family into the dark.

Nero gave them a short, to the point report on his men if asked, but otherwise kept the details to himself. Aware of their “leave work at work” policy, he usually didn’t bring up how his troops were doing unless asked. Although Nero had been quiet and subdued ever since his misadventure- even Veld tended to think of it in euphemism- there was subtlety to his stance, posture, and expression that spoke of determination and not despair. For a while, anyway.

In some ways Nero was as easy to read as the headline on a newspaper, in others it took the time of exposure and familiarity to recognize the unique tells that indicated a change in mood. Veld had thought he had a pretty good inventory of Nero’s emotional quirks, but apparently it wasn’t yet complete. Perhaps it was because he was living without his respirator that a Turk-level poker face seemed to have taken up permanent residence on his features. When it didn’t shift, Veld dared to ask him about it.

“Something on your mind?”

Nero’s features didn’t waver though he did not meet Veld’s eyes right away. “I had to cut Henson down.”

Veld blinked, unsure how to take that. Nero went on.

“He’d rigged his bedsheet to a support in the ceiling. He’s the third one.”

This was the first time Veld had heard of this. “Gods kid, I’m sorry.”

Nero just shook his head and shrugged. Like ask not, this was something that had occurred with disturbing frequency in Deepground. Also…

“I know why they did it,” Nero said quietly. “I just...I wish I’d gotten to them sooner.”

“Yeah,” Veld told him, reaching to pat his shoulder. “I know.”

\--

There was a fight in what the WRO regulars had dubbed ‘the prison yard’. This was, of course, the holding area where the Deepground troops were being kept. Even Nero had no idea what it had been about- it was possible the troops didn’t know either, sometimes just being pent up like prisoners made men vicious in a way they might not normally be- but at the end of it, five men were dead. Nero scratched five more score marks into the fragment of concrete they’d salvaged from the pit. He and Shelke both sat with the remaining troops and held vigil.

As the weeks turned into months, Nero continued to lose men. Like him, these were people who had grown up in Deepground having never known love or kindness. Some of them cared for each other after a fashion, but only in the subtle, stunted sense that would have gone unnoticed by the Restrictors. Having been thrust into an alien culture, they were now expected to adapt and accept the new rules and regulations of surface life and to somehow square the fact that everything they’d ever known was wrong. Of course Nero didn’t phrase it like that, but pretty much everyone else did whether they realized it or not.

Three more men died for no discernable reason. There was no indication of an obvious physical attempt by themselves or anyone else, no suggestion of foul play, and their tox screens were negative. The coroner suggested they’d died of a broken spirit. Had Nero the language, he might have corrected him: his men had died of a broken heart.

Although Veld had finally convinced Vincent to put the baby monitor away, it was apparent Nero wasn’t sleeping well. Too often they’d both start awake at a muffled shout and realize a few heartbeats later that it was Nero awakened by a nightmare. A couple of times, Veld caught him in the laundry room with his sheets and blankets. Nero acknowledged him, but did not meet his eyes. Veld simply nodded and moved on. Trauma made children out of even the most hardened warrior, and Nero had been through more than most. There was no point in embarrassing the poor kid further.

\--

Of course Nero didn’t spend every night at home. He tended to leave the door open out of sheer habit, and some nights his room would be dark and his bed perfectly made. Usually he remembered to tell Vincent and Veld when he would be out, even if he didn’t tell them why. He didn’t need to. Any time he didn’t sleep in his own bed usually meant he’d be sleeping in Max’s. Veld wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that. He’d known Max since she was very small, and some part of his brain refused to give up the image of her as a pigtailed eight-year-old. On the other hand, she and Nero were both adults and it wasn’t any of his business. At least he could rest secure in the fact that neither of them would hurt the other.

As he had so often while still in the hospital, Nero had fallen asleep on her. Max smiled and stroked one hand over his hair as the movie played on. Nero’s head lay heavy on her shoulder, his chest rising and falling in soft, even breaths. She waited until the credits had finished before carefully wriggling out from under him and maneuvering him to lie down on the couch. Nero did little more than start half-awake at the movement, but quieted at her gentle reassurance. She hated to wake him, and there was no way she could carry him on her own, but she doubted he would mind one night on the couch. Kissing his hair, Max crept to her room.

A ragged wail started Max awake from a sound sleep. Panic shot through her, making her sit bolt upright. Her first thought was that someone had broken in, the second that Dalton had brought a date home and they were being noisey. The cry came again. No. She knew that voice.

“Nero!”

Throwing back the blankets, Max rushed into the living room. What she was going to do unarmed and wearing pajamas in the event of an intruder or a monster, she did not bother to consider. Nero was alone in the darkened room, writhing on the sofa. He let out another half-swallowed wail.

“Nero?” she asked, reaching to touch his arm. Was he ill? Had he relapsed? Could he breathe? Nero started at her touch, tumbling to the floor. At first she thought the short fall had knocked the wind out of him. He coughed, gagged, his whole body lurching as he retched a small puddle of bile onto the carpet.

“Nero?” Max asked again genuinely alarmed. “Nero are you okay?”

He did not answer right away. Shaking himself, he blinked blearily at her.

“Max?”

She reached to switch on the lamp and knelt down next to him. “Nero, what’s wrong? Are you sick?” 

At first he seemed confused, until he noticed the puddle of sick pooling among the carpet fibers. Darker gray flushed his throat and cheeks as he looked away.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m okay.” With one hand he subtly pulled the afghan over his lap. “Nightmare. That’s all.”

“Must’ve been a pretty bad one.” She stroked his hair gently. “Lie down on the sofa again, okay? If your stomach’s upset, I can make you some ginger tea. Think you could handle that?”

“It’s nothing,” Nero insisted shakily. He climbed to his feet, still clutching the blanket. “I’ll...get some paper towels.”

He wandered off to retrieve the item in question, returning to try to sponge the mess from the carpet. Max tore a few off to help.

“It’s not nothing,” she challenged quietly. “What’s the matter? Please tell me?”

“It’s stupid,” Nero muttered. “I’m okay.”

“You’re not. Either you’re sick, or you’re scared, or something.” Hesitantly, she touched his arm, and watched his resolve crumble.

“I just...keep having this dream,” he began. “Chaos. My brother and sister… My men… He’s killed them. Killing them. Drinking their...” He gagged and swallowed hard. “I know...I know that’s not what happened. I know it isn’t real but…”

“Don’t talk about it if you don’t want to,” said Max. “Has this been going on since you got out of the hospital? No wonder you look so tired all the time.”

He shook his head. “It happened a little then. The dreams sort of tapered off and I hadn’t had them for a while, then I had to take command again and…” He sniffed and swallowed hard, forcing back tears.

“I keep losing them. I can’t help them. I don’t know what to do.”

Sitting down on the sofa, she tugged his arm until he sat next to her. “Nero, I think you should talk to Cissnei. She can help you work through stuff. Ciss won’t hurt you. She isn’t like the doctors you had in Deepground.”

Perhaps because the dream still lingered raw and real, Nero shivered. “I...I know that. Mostly. I like her okay. She’s nice. But...but she’ll want to fix me,” he stammered. “If she can’t do it herself, she’ll pass me on to someone who can and...and…” He clapped a hand over his mouth, visibly forcing back the acid that had surged into his throat.

“I’m not broken,” he gasped. “I’m not. This will go away. I’ll be fine.”

“Oh, babe, it doesn’t work that way!” Max leaned against him, knowing he’d accept that more readily than a hug. “She won’t do that. I promise. Once she accepts a patient, she’s committed to helping them herself. The only reason she might refer you to someone else would be if she thought you needed more help than she could give, but it would still be totally up to you. And of course you’re not broken!”

Max put a tentative hand on the side of his face, turning him to face her. “Everybody needs help sometimes, Nero. You’ve been through so much. And it hurts. Whatever you need, I’ll help you find it, okay?”

Nero often had difficulty deciding between the many choices offered by Surface life. With that in mind, Max took his hand in hers and held it tightly. “Would it help if you come sleep next to me? And then tomorrow we’ll go see Ciss together. Just for a little while.”

“I… I don’t want to wreck your bed,” he murmured, avoiding her eyes, yet gripping her hand hard enough to hurt.

“I’ll put a bucket next to the bed,” said Max, trying for a lighter tone. “Besides, the blankets and sheets will wash. I like having you next to me. It’s lots warmer.”

She stood up and held out her other hand. “Come on.”

Nero hadn’t really been intending to put up a fight, and followed her without a word.

Once they were in bed, Max snuggled up close to him. “How’s that? We don’t have to do anything else if you don’t feel like it. Not that I’d say ‘no’ if you want to.”

Nero blushed fractionally at that. “It’d be the first time on dry land.”

“Hey, there’s a first time for everything.” She rose on one elbow and leaned over to kiss him. “I’m so glad you’re out of that tank, you have no idea. You’ll be fine. It’s just gonna take a little time.”

“Mm,” Nero responded, kissing in return. “Me too. Believe me, I wish I knew how to shut it off. I know it’s irrational, but try telling my stupid subconscious that.” With one arm, he pulled her close. “Thank you for putting up with me.”

“My pleasure, babe.” She winked. “And yours.”

Taking that as an invitation, Nero reached and briefly groped in the drawer on her nightstand. It was nice to have someone next to him. Veld and Vincent had stayed with him early on, when he was half-mad with grief and terrified of everything. As he’d stabilized, they’d retreated to their own room again. While he understood why, the bed they’d given him continued to feel cold and too big. The empty spaces on either side of him just reminded him of how alone he was. The warm weight of Max’s body against his was soothing, calming nerves he had not realized were frayed.

He smiled in the dark as she stroked a hand over his hair, petting him the way he might pet Ned. Shifting, he nestled his face in her throat. Max didn’t wear perfume, but she smelled exotic to him; of soap, and growing things, fresh air and sun, with just a hint of oil and metal from her beloved machines. She was soft and fragile in a way that he wasn’t used to. In some ways she reminded him of Shelke; delicate, but fierce and determined. Just because she wasn’t physically imposing didn’t mean she wasn’t dangerous.

It felt strange to be confined by gravity, to swim in layers of soft cotton instead of dark mako. There were barriers up here; her pajamas, the dimensions of the mattress, the worry of ruining her bed. Max didn’t seem bothered by this, or at least knew the work arounds. Trust her to show him how yet another thing worked on the surface. Everything about her was intelligent, deft, precise. She was so much smarter than he could ever hope to be; her hands and lips knew just what to do. Those clever fingers removed barriers even as he hurried to put one in place.

How long had it been since they last became lost in each other? Before...before things he didn’t want to think about had happened. Those things were gone, would never come back, but Max was still here. Had been there from the beginning. It occurred to Nero that he’d never thought to thank her. Hopefully, this would be enough. Something like that wasn’t the sort of thing he’d ever be able to put into words, anyway. Pulling her close, he tried to show her how grateful he was.

There were so many things he wanted to tell her, but for which he did not know the words, didn’t even know how to ask. How could anyone explain what did not have a name? He could never speak what he felt; all the things filling his chest to bursting because of her. Without his shadows, all he had was two hands, but it seemed to be enough. He felt her gasp, a warm breath soft against his ear, ribs expanding against his, and then her lips had covered his. If it was possible to drown in another person’s heart and soul, Nero would have happily done so.

They broke the kiss and the surface with a gasp. Wait. Surface?

“What the hell?” Max asked, fingers clutching him in alarm.

Nero blinked, trying to force his eyes to adjust faster. Wait a minute… How the…?

“We’re in the cave,” he answered blankly. “How…?”

“You must have warped us. There’s no other way we could have gotten down here.”

“But...my shadows,” Nero insisted. “They’re gone! Or I thought they were.”

“Didn’t you tell me Cissnei thought part of the reason they hadn’t come back was because you’ve been so down?” Her smile was a bright crescent of white in the darkness. “Guess you’re feeling a little better now, hm?”

Nero didn’t try to stop the heat racing up his throat and into his face. “Yeah.”

“I’m so happy for you, babe,” she said, leaning in for another kiss.

“Yeah,” he smiled against her lips. “Me too.”

“Think you could get us out of here? I mean as much as I missed the cave, I do kinda have class in the morning.”

She didn’t say it, but Nero got the implied meaning. Hopefully he had the power to get them back. If not… He shook his head, dispelling the thought. Taking a deep breath, he reached.

Manipulating the shadows had always been natural, instinctive, no more complicated than breathing. His shadows had always been a part of him; a natural extension of himself. Losing them had been like losing a limb. Nero held onto Max and stretched, feeling the ether warp around them. When he dared to look up, Max was still in his arms, the two of them dripping a purple puddle onto her bedroom carpet.

“You did it!” Max squealed, and lunged at him. They fell to the floor in a heap, a laughing, smiling tangle of arms and legs. Nero didn’t have words for this either, so he caught her face with one hand and kissed her. She understood. She always did.


	55. Monsters in The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nero gets revenge.  
> Sorta.

Upon their return from their- in Vincent’s opinion- quite successful little father-son bonding experience, life as usual resumed. Vincent went back to work, Nero went back to his men. Some of them were improving, some of them...less so. However, they weren’t the only misplaced Deepground residents.

Something nasty had escaped from the ruins of Deepground. Nero had mentioned _mongrels_ , and everyone knew that grotesque experiments had gone on in the underground laboratories.

When the WRO troops had finally reached the labs, they’d found nothing in the specimen area but empty cages. Some had been recently occupied, but the doors hung off the hinges and the occupants were nowhere to be found. With numerous surviving human residents to worry about, the mongrels, whatever they were, were forgotten.

Weeks later, reports began to come in of a thing that shouldn’t exist. Bigger and broader than anything human, it had too many teeth, too many legs, and it spat venom that smoked on impact with stone, concrete, asphalt, or flesh.

One brave, or very stupid, individual had managed to snap a photo of the thing, just before it scuttled off into the darkness under a highway overpass. The picture was blurry, suggesting a large, bulky body, a gaping maw full of dripping teeth, and compound eyes that glittered like black diamonds.

“What the hell is it?” Vincent pushed his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose, squinting at the image on Reeve’s computer screen.

“No one knows,” said Reeve. “It’s killed several people, though, and it obviously can’t be left alone.”

“And you want me to be the acting exterminator, I suppose?”

“Would you mind?” Reeve sounded almost apologetic.

“No, of course not. Better me than Nero.”

Reeve looked again at the image on the screen. “Do you think he might know what it is, and how to handle it?”

“I don’t know, and I’m not going to ask,” said Vincent. “He’s not strong enough yet to deal with things like this.”

He reached for the mouse and scrolled the report down to the city map. “Where’s it been spotted? I want to see if there’s been any pattern to its movements.”

“Here, here and here.” Reeve pointed to specific streets. Red ‘X’s’ represented individual incidents, several on each street. “It got into a company’s loading dock here, and someone’s basement two streets over. Two deaths occurred. It’s been coming closer to the city center with each reported sighting.”

A chill fluttered up Vincent’s spine. The monster’s most recent appearances had been only a few blocks away from the WRO HQ. Every incident had occurred at night.

Nero was often out late.

Helping his surviving Deepground troops integrate into surface society wasn’t a nine-to-five job. For many, surface life was confusing and difficult, and Nero made himself available whenever they needed him. It could be anything from extended classes or one-on-one coaching, to visiting a trooper in the infirmary, or sitting vigil for someone who’d taken his own life.

Nero’s shadow magic was still severely reduced. He could manage a few minor things, like the shadow “underwear” he preferred to the conventional kind, but that was about the limit of it. As far as Vincent knew, traveling via shadow was still out of the question.

For that reason, Nero often slept at the WRO troop barracks; but what if he wanted to come home, or visit Max? He had to walk, or take public transport, which still meant walking to the bus or train stop, and walking back afterward.

That settled it.

“I’ll do it,” said Vincent. “I need the target practice.”

\---

Visiting Max had done much to steady Nero’s nerves and improve his general outlook on things. He’d filled her in on the trip with Vincent, and made the hesitant announcement that they had made progress. He had been unable to give a clear definition of what ‘progress’ was supposed to mean, but Max seemed to understand. She was smart like that. It was always nice seeing her. Too bad he no longer felt that way about his men.

Nero set off the few blocks to WRO HQ. He’d taken to sleeping in the barracks off and on, afraid to stray too far. It seemed as if the moment he turned his back, some new crisis erupted. Maybe this had always been the case and he simply hadn’t noticed it among the daily chaos that had defined life in Deepground. Not quite half the men he’d started with were still standing, and Nero was beginning to despair of his ability to teach them how to manage on the Surface.

Nero didn’t much care for the bus, or the trains, they were too full of noise and light and strangers. Walking alone was marginally better, though it left him feeling exposed. Although his body was recovering, his shadows had not fully returned. Ned and his fellow squeakies still answered to his call, but they were their own creatures, and not his to bend to his will. The darkness would only grudgingly obey him, which made him extra glad of the standard-issue pistol tucked inside his jacket. Without the risk of warping the firearm to parts unknown, Nero had gotten considerably better with guns, and was neither remarkable nor terrible at hitting a target. He would never approach Vincent’s accuracy, but at least he could hit the proverbial broadside of a barn.

There was no reason for him to be on the alert. Indeed, if not for the tightness in his chest to remind him that he was still recovering, Nero might have forgotten that he had any reason to be concerned for his own safety. He might be the least of his siblings, but he was still the scariest thing on the Surface aside from Vincent. When the glitter of eyes snagged his attention, it was merely noted. Such a thing was not uncommon in Deepground. It took him a moment to remember that the void staring back at one was not something generally encountered up here. Nero paused, and turned to look, but the eyes were gone. That did not mean whatever was attached to them wasn’t there. Half-convinced he’d imagined it, Nero edged closer to the side street where the eyes had blinked at him last.

There was a hiss, and then a huge misshapen _thing_ shuffled out of the shadows, long segmented legs tipped with pincers reaching for Nero. Its mouth opened, shooting a stream of venom that splattered the pavement. Stinging drops hit his face, his hands, leaving fiery red marks on his skin.

Nero let out an involuntary cry of surprise and pain. Leaping out of the way, he landed awkwardly, fumbling for his gun. A Sureshot-CR wasn’t going to be much against this thing, but Nero wasn’t sure he could manage both a phone and a gun at the same time. Instinctively, he reached for shadow, for darkness, but nothing happened. With no other recourse, he fired at the largest eye.

The creature gave an ear-splitting shriek as the bullet grazed its eye, and opened its mouth as it rushed toward Nero. More venom shot out between rows of ragged teeth, splashing and smoking on the ground. It swiped a foreleg at Nero, catching him by one ankle, knocking him flat on his back.

Nero went down with a painful thud, breath leaving him in a rush. He managed to squeeze off another shot at the thing even as he fought to get air back in his lungs. The creature stabbed at him with one leg and Nero clumsily rolled out of the way. Still coughing, he fired off two more rounds, hoping to take out one or two of its beady black eyes. Another stream of venom made him vault out of the way, but left tiny holes in the legs of his trousers.

The monster’s wounds didn’t even slow it down. Bleeding, hissing, it lunged at Nero, four of its legs extended to crush him. The first two legs pinned his shoulders, the next his hips. A huge, bulbous head loomed over him, dripping saliva and venom in sticky streams.

Nero bit back a scream as the goo ate through his jacket and then his shirt to begin on bare skin. He lifted the gun and fired straight into the thing’s face, but was met with only a muffled bang and a surge of heat as the gun misfired. Defenseless, Nero stared up into its too-numerous teeth, trying and failing to disappear into shadow.

As the monster bent its head, a rushing wind nearly bowled it over, an echoing boom reverberating from the nearest building. The monster’s head exploded in a burst of black gore. Behind it, something -- _someone_ \-- carried by red leather wings landed on the pavement, a huge gun grasped in one hand.

“Careless,” a deep voice growled. “And after all my effort to spare you.”

Nero stared, his whole body gone cold and stiff as stone. This was the second time he had seen the deathly white face. Fear and anger roiled inside him, struggling for supremacy. This creature- this thing- had spared his life a second time, but it had not been so generous with the rest of his family. It took two tries to climb to his feet, his long limbs shaking with a volatile mix of rage and terror. His mind screamed at him to run, but his heart keened for Chaos’ blood. Distantly, Nero felt something snap.

“ _You…_ ” he breathed, the cool, familiar sensation of shadow gathering in both palms. It no longer mattered if Chaos shared Vincent’s mind and body. Power surged through Nero’s body, making him feel as if he had truly risen from the dead and was only now drawing his first true breath. Shadow rolled off him in waves, his hair lifting in the peremptory charge of magic. He no longer cared that Chaos had let him live; he was more angry that he had let his siblings die. Rage won out, shoving fear to the side, and Nero rushed at Chaos, eyes glowing gold and blades of nightmare black in each hand.

Chaos sidestepped as casually as if Nero was a five-year-old armed with a toy sword. One wing flicked, knocking him off stride, and Chaos tilted his head, looking down his nose at him.

“Child,” he sniffed, “you do recall I’m immune to your shadows? Show some respect for your elders.”

He reached out, plucking first one and then the other blade out of Nero’s grip, crushing them into shards of shadow.

“Do not raise your hand to me again. I will not be so gentle the next time.”

“Then you should have killed me when you had the chance,” Nero snarled, lunging at him. At the back of his mind, Omega protested loudly, but went ignored. The borrowed power of a Limit Break and Omega’s materia gave him strength and speed that even as a Tsviet, Nero had not previously possessed. Grappling with a force of nature had not been on his list of things to do today, but Nero fell on Chaos, intent on tearing him apart with his bare hands if he had to.

They hit the ground in a tangle of long limbs and ragged wings, tumbling through pools of monster blood and venom, and came to a stop against a brick wall with a force that shook the building. Chaos fought like a rabid animal, forcing Nero back, blocking every blow with his arms or fists. The weird cracked face never changed expression, but the golden eyes burned, and Chaos growled, “Enough! I am done with you!”

“No!” Nero reached, seizing Chaos by the throat. The demon thought to pull away, to vanish into Darkness and leave the mortal to deal with his recalcitrant offspring, but found he could not move. The child held him fast. Not a little bit perplexed, and slightly alarmed, Chaos struggled all the harder and then he remembered: Omega.

“No, you don’t get to pin this on Vincent,” Nero rumbled, squeezing hard. “You did this. You did this to me, you did this to him.” Pulling back one hand, shadow condensed into a long stiletto of pure Void. “You don’t get to do it again.”

Chaos gasped- surprise and pain coloring the sound- as the spike of shadow shot through him; not simply Valentine’s body, but the materia in his chest. This should not be. This should not hurt. The child should not be able to do this, not even with Omega’s power. One could not kill a force of nature, but that did not mean even an ancient immortal could not be hurt. Giving the boy a last look that was somewhere between impressed and contempt, he felt himself dissolve into shadow. At once his body slumped forward into Nero’s arms.

Nero staggered under the weight, knees buckling, sending both of them crumbling to the pavement. Not Chaos but Vincent hung limp in his arms.

“Oh gods…” Nero breathed, the realization of what he’d done dawning on him with a sudden and awful clarity. “No… Dad, wake up! I’m sorry!”

Nero shook him, laid Vincent’s body down on the street and went over him for injuries but found none. No blood, no puncture wound, nothing.

“Dad? _Dad!_ ”

Several minutes passed in silence, until Vincent’s eyes opened, no longer the burning gold of Chaos.

“Nero?...the hell happened? Did Chaos…did I hurt you?”

Nero shook where he knelt, expression contorting from one emotion to another; terror, anger, anguish. His breath came in too-deep gasps that sobbed on the way in. Eyes welling up, Nero fell on him, seizing him in both hands. Clutching Vincent close, he dissolved into tears.

“I’m sorry,” Nero bawled into Vincent’s shoulder, the word so strangled it was barely discernible. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

Vincent wrapped his arms around Nero. “It’s okay. Chaos had it coming.”

“I wish we weren’t two people,” Nero gasped through his tears. “I wish you were just Vincent and I was just Nero. I don’t care if Chaos is a god. If he wasn’t stuck inside you I’d kill him.”

“I’ve never been ‘just Vincent.’ Always shared headspace with a bunch if misfits. Chaos is just the most recent...and the worst of the lot.”

Pulling back a little, he looked more closely at Nero. “Are you hurt? Tell me you’re okay, please?”

The broken sobs had tapered off into coughing. Nero nodded, fumbling for the inhaler Max had built for him. He managed to extract it from his jacket pocket, but required Vincent’s help to actually use it, his hands shaking too badly to hold it steady.

“I’m okay,” Nero gasped when he could speak again. There was no blood on his suit, but the creature’s corrosive saliva had left holes in his shirt and blisters on his skin. It might not be a significant injury to a former Tsviet, but it still had to hurt.

“I couldn’t…” he panted. “The gun…it jammed…” Angry and ashamed, he looked away.

“I never liked that model,” Vincent growled. “Nero, it’s not your fault. It happens. It probably wouldn’t have done much damage, anyway. All I care about is that you’re not hurt.”

He rose, offering a hand to help Nero up. Both of them were patched with the creature’s blood, their clothing dotted with charred holes.

“Let’s get off the street,” said Vincent. “I’ll let Reeve know the thing is dead. And I think you deserve a night off.”

“No, I’m okay,” Nero began, leaning heavily on Vincent as he got to his feet. Channeling Omega’s power had left him exhausted. No sooner had he managed to get himself upright than the street did a backflip and everything went black. The world reappeared a few seconds later, but it lurched and wobbled sickeningly.

“I don’t think so.” Vincent pulled Nero’s arm around his own shoulders. “Come on. One step at a time. I’ll get you home.”


	56. Initiate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is Closure.

His shadows had returned. Sort of. Nero had to be careful how often and how much he did with them. Summoning and manipulating Darkness was draining in a way it hadn’t been before. Shalua thought that he would build up his magical strength again in time. Nero certainly hoped so. With the return of his powers, however, had come the voice inside his head.

 _‘Your gifts have a unique purpose,’_ Omega insisted. _‘The Void is not meant to be a toy. You must learn to harness it to fulfill your true calling.’_

 _‘And what if I don’t want to?’_ Nero thought back. _‘The Cetra are extinct and so’s their stupid religion. All that’s left is a bunch of junk at the bottom of an underground mako well.’_

Omega grumbled, indignant, but did not rebuke him. _‘Mortals have indeed forgotten the ancient ways,’_ he agreed. _‘You have unraveled many of nature’s mysteries, yet no one can fathom completely the secrets of Life and Death.’_

_‘I’m not interested in being an undertaker.’_

Omega seemed amused at this. _‘No indeed, yet I have chosen you, Nero Vincent, son of Valentine. Preparing a body for its final journey is only one small facet of your duty.’_

_‘I didn’t ask for this,’ Nero mentally grumbled. ‘I didn’t want to be saved…’_

_‘And now?’_

Nero did not have an answer for that. At the time, he’d been so stricken with grief, so sick with despair, that his only thought had been to follow his family into the unknown. Vincent had rescued him, had brought him the Omega materia to save his life. They stood on even ground, and Nero was beginning to see why Vincent wanted him around. Nero did not want to seem ungrateful, but even now there were times when he wished that he had never been found.

 _‘Do not discard the affection of others so easily,’_ Omega admonished gently. _‘Your sun family would be deeply grieved by your loss. Does not your father love you? Does not your stepfather? What of your mate? Have you not a surviving sister?’_

 _‘Max isn’t my mate,’_ Nero insisted, feeling his neck grow warm. _‘I know, I know. My life is not my own, what I did was selfish and stupid. There are people still standing that I hurt. I get it. I do. I just…’_ He sighed, hugged his knees closer. _‘It doesn’t make it hurt any less…’_

Nero felt the sensation of strong arms around him, flinching before he recognized the gesture for what it was.

_‘Grief and loss come to all of us, my Shadow Son. As First Born of the Dark, you must walk this path of tears, but you need not be broken by it. It has been granted to you to bring rest and peace to those who seek it; both the living and the dead.’_

Sniffling, Nero looked up. _‘How?’_

 

\--

 

It had been almost a year since the Mothers, children, and surviving staff of Deepground had been rescued and brought safe to the surface; since Nero had fused with Omega. All those alive had been safely evacuated to the surface. All those who had not survived the fall of Deepground remained where they lay. There had been some discussion of setting off further explosions, of letting the broken earth and rubble collapse in on itself. No one really wanted to sift through the wreckage for corpses of enemy combatants. This made Vincent angry, but Nero thought the workmen had a fair complaint.

Nero had not visited the crater since his...accident. That was how Vincent referred to it. Now, as the sun set over the gaping wound in the earth, Nero sat atop the excavation scaffolding and tried to think. Ned crept from the deepening shadows and came over to sit beside him. Nero scratched his antennae absently, eliciting a pleased purr.

“I wasn’t ready to say goodbye,” Nero said softly into the dusk. “I’m still not. I may never be. I know they’re not coming back, but…”

 _‘It does not stop the heart from longing,’_ Omega finished. _‘I offer you several thousand years of sympathy.’_

“So...say I did it? What would happen to them?”

‘Their souls would return to the Planet.’

“What the hell does that even mean?”

He could have sworn Omega was smiling. _‘A wise question. Even the most learned of your people could not divine it fully. As an immortal, I can only tell you what I have witnessed. The body returns to the earth, crumbling into soil. The spirit, however, journeys on. The energy, the life spark, returns as that which you call dark mako. There it slumbers until it has become refreshed. The painful memories, the worries and cares, all become separated from the consciousness. The self departs, leaving its energy behind in the form of light mako.’_

“What happens to the self?”

 _‘None can say,’_ Omega intoned, a note of wonder in his eternal voice. _‘For none who have joined the stars in the Promised Land have ever returned.’_

“It must be nice, then.”

_‘One would assume.’_

“Do you think Weiss and Rosso would want to be stars?”

_‘Do you?’_

Nero thought about it. Looking down from the heavens would probably be a decided improvement from lying at the bottom of a pit under a pile of stones. It wasn’t just them. A lot of other people lay dead and buried less deliberately down in the crater. He had known most of them. Some of them he had liked, a few had liked him. Suddenly, he didn’t want them rotting at the bottom of a hole in the ground. 

_‘You can help them on their journey,’_ Omega suggested. _‘Show them the path through the stars that leads to the Promised Land.’_

“...how?” 

_‘Rise. I will instruct you.’_

\-- 

Vincent’s office did not have a window. He was perfectly fine with this. Veld’s, however, did. Vincent wasn’t sure if this was a nod to Veld’s status as Chief emeritus or not, but it amused him just the same. Crossing the hall to collect his partner for the evening, he entered the office. 

“Just about done,” Veld told him, not looking up from his computer. “Just let me send this. Shalua had some suggestions for all the rescues.” 

“Okay,” Vincent agreed since Veld couldn’t hear him nod. Absently, he went over to the window and looked out. This side of the building had a decent view of Old Midgar and the massive crater formerly known as Deepground. A dark spot caught his eye. Squinting, he smiled. 

“I can see Nero down at the excavation site,” he remarked. “How ‘bout I get him and you meet us in the lobby?” 

“Sure,” Veld agreed, still engrossed in his keyboard. 

“Ten minutes, Dragoon,” Vincent warned, teasing.

“Yeah, yeah,” Veld broke stride in his typing long enough to wave him out the door. “Get going. I’ll be right down.” 

It would probably take Veld longer, but that was alright. He knew when to quit for the day. Usually. Crossing the street and ducking around strips of caution tape, Vincent made his way over to the crater. It was a little tricky to pick Nero out of the deepening shadows. He was undergoing orientation for the Turks, and Vincent thought the white shirt and blue suit looked good on Nero. The boy had draped the jacket over the railing and rolled the shirt sleeves to his elbows. He’d been sitting with arms wrapped around his tucked-up knees, his lanky height compacted into a small ball. Vincent watched as Nero stood, his long body telescoping up and up. For a moment he stood still, staring out into the pit. Dim lights like fireflies ghosted around him. Vincent frowned. It was far too early in the season for fireflies. 

Nero tilted his head up, seemingly contemplating the stars beginning to wink into existence when a double pair of luminous wings erupted from his back. The fabric of his shirt rippled, but did not tear. Deep indigo feathers, brilliant with their own eerie light drifted loose on the breeze, evaporating into stardust before they touched the ground. Nero held out both arms as if waiting for a hug. Vincent lunged forward with a shout, hand outstretched, knowing he was too far away and too late as Nero stepped off the edge of the platform. 

And kept on walking. 

Eyes glowing gold, purple-blue wings waving softly behind him, he stepped across the open air until he hung directly above the center of the crater. The wings flapped, pushing him a bit higher into the sky. Hovering in space, Nero leaned and held out one hand, as if reaching to help someone up. Vincent watched, both hands gripping the railing as hundreds upon hundreds of golden pinpricks of light sparked to life from the black depths of the pit. The lights grew slowly larger, and Vincent realized they were rising, coming closer and closer. A swarm, a horde, a positive ocean of pyreflies rose golden and glimmering. An entire fairy court of them filled the air, surrounding Nero who still stretched down with one hand. 

Vincent blinked as something seized Nero’s hand. The golden dust of the pyreflies sprinkled down, giving it shape, and Vincent realized it was a hand. A hand attached to a thick, muscular arm, that was in turn connected to a stocky body. The phantom of a young man perhaps a handwidth shorter than Nero with a wild thatch of fair hair materialized. Nero stretched out his other hand and a second shade caught it. This one proved to be slimmer, more delicate, and attached to a woman with gentle curves and curly hair. 

His throat tightened as Nero somehow collected both his siblings in one arm and held out his hand a third time. This time the hand that took his was nearly double the size. The giant Azul materialized, and leaned to hug all three of them at once. For once, Nero did not balk, didn’t flinch, just leaned in and held on. For a long moment all of them stood close, heads pressed together. What they said to each other, Vincent could not begin to guess. After a moment Nero hugged Azul, nearly vanishing in his embrace, then his sister, and finally Weiss. Even as he held on, his brother’s spirit began to evaporate, leaving a trail of golden dust that spiraled higher and higher toward the white light of the stars above. 

The spell broken, Nero drifted down to the sidewalk, collapsing to hands and knees, wings vanishing in a puff of starlight. Vincent raced back down the scaffolding, falling rather than jumping the last few stairs and skidding to his knees in front of his son. 

“Nero!” he cried, grabbing him by both shoulders. “Nero are you okay?!” 

Nero grabbed Vincent’s shoulder in turn to steady himself, and shook his head to clear it. Stardust scattered from his hair. Tears streaked his face, but underneath, he was smiling. The smile was sad, but it was a smile nonetheless. 

“Yeah, I am,” he said, pulling his father into a clumsy hug. “Now.” 


	57. Congratulations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New life, new purpose, new beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW content; non-explicit shenanigans take place.  
> So. Yanno. Consider yourselves warned.

Nero started, almost vanishing into shadow, at a light tap on his shoulder. He whipped around to see Tseng standing right behind him.

“Oh, hi Sir,” Nero breathed, carefully climbing down from the sudden adrenaline high.

“Sorry about that,” Tseng apologized. “I was wondering if I might have a word?”

“Um, sure.”

“I understand your shadows have returned.”

“Yeah, mostly,” Nero agreed. “It’s still a work in progress.”

Tseng nodded. “And your men?”

Nero sighed and pushed a hand through his bangs. “Aslo a work in progress. Actually, I was wondering… I think maybe… I think a few of them would transition well to the Turks, Sir. If you want them, that is. I can send you their files.”

“I’d be happy to look at them,” Tseng said with a gracious nod. “Would you be free to meet with me for an hour or so at some point? Perhaps later this week.”

“Yes, Sir,” Nero said, resisting the urge to salute. Tseng wasn’t his boss anymore. They were close in rank in their respective branches. Still, the habit was hard to ignore.

“Very good. I look forward to meeting with you.”

\--

Nero had left Vincent a text, which he hadn’t received because he’d left his phone on the night stand again and the battery had run down. Anticipating this, he’d also copied the message to Veld. Although most of his few belongings were stored in the back bedroom, Nero had been spending most of his time with his troops. Veld and Vincent hadn’t seen him for more than a few minutes here and there. Vincent was therefore pleasantly surprised when he answered the door and found Nero on the other side.

“Nero! We weren’t expecting you,” Vincent said, stepping back so Nero could enter.

“I was!” Veld called from the kitchen. “Plug your damn phone in, Valentine.”

Vincent rolled his eyes and shut the door. Nero grinned in response.

“Hey dad,” he said by way of a greeting. “I um...I have some papers I need to fill out for a job. Would you and Veld mind filling out the family bits? You know, who to call in an emergency.”

“Right, sure,” Vincent agreed. Going over to the table, he edged the plates and silverware out of the way.

“After dinner,” Veld said in a no-nonsense tone. “Nero, you’re staying?”

It wasn’t really a question. “Yes, sir.”

Only after they had eaten and the table cleared did Vincent sit down to help Nero with the various employment forms. It brought a certain sense of fatherly pride to put his information down on the various ‘next of kin’ boxes. Veld- who had graciously offered to do the dishes himself while Vincent helped Nero- also added his own as a backup.

“Since you never answer your damn phone,” he grumbled with a smile. Vincent stuck his tongue out as Veld returned to the kitchen.

“That’s all of them except for this one.”

Vincent felt his brows draw together as Nero scooted a last piece of paper in front of him.

“Nero, this is your birth certificate.”

Nero nodded. “Yeah. Your name’s not on it. It should be.”

For a moment Vincent gaped, mouth working but no sound coming out. “Are you sure?”

“You’re my father. Science says so, and so does all the things you’ve done for me. I want it to be official. I mean...unless you don’t want to…”

Vincent could only stare. A solid minute ticked past while he tried desperately to reboot his brain. “Nero, do you want me to adopt you?”

“If it’s okay…”

“Hell yes it’s okay!” Vincent cried, flinging his arms around his son. Nero let out a startled “Eep!” but did not vanish into shadow, barely even flinched. Instead he laughed, and clumsily patted Vincent on the back.

“Good. I wanted to have it on paper before I started at the family business.”

Vincent blinked. “The what now?”

Nero grinned. “Tseng tested me. I have a spot in the Turks.”

\--

Between his new job and the adoption, both Vincent and Veld agreed it was the perfect occasion for a party. Nero had never had a birthday party, and his meager collection of personal belongings could certainly use some additions. After explaining the concept, and assuring him he had sole charge of the guest list, they put the question to Nero: was this something he would like to do? It could be as large or as small as he liked. Or they could not do it at all. Whatever he wanted.

“Cake and presents sound good,” Nero decided. “And I think it would be fun to hang out with a bunch of friends at once.”

The list turned out to be longer than Veld had anticipated- not that he minded in the least. Nero had made friends, apparently while no one- Nero included- had been paying attention. There was Shelke and Shalua of course, Max, obviously, myriad Turks, and even a few of his better-socialized Deepground troops. It was still fewer than fifteen people, including Vincent and himself, but Veld smiled. Valentine liked to say the kid was his step-son. Nephew or grandson might be more accurate, but the sentiment was the same.

Veld happily prepared the food with Nero’s help, while Vincent was put in charge of informing the guests and decorating. Max nodded approvingly at the blue, black, and silver streamers and balloons arranged here and there. Nero might have been perfectly happy with a color explosion befitting a child, but this was more classy. No pinata, no party favors, but there would be plenty of alcohol. There would be Turks involved, after all.

“How come I haven’t had one of these?” Shelke demanded on the night of the party. Shalua shifted awkwardly before Shelke gently nudged her to show her she was teasing.

“I wasn’t sure you’d want one,” Shalua confessed. “But we can definitely do something about that.”

“It’s fine,” Shelke assured her. “My birthday’s not until summer, anyway.”

Nero chuckled at this and turned as someone touched his hand. He turned to see Max standing beside him.

“Happy birthday and congratulations,” she told him. “I am insanely jealous.”

“I’ll let you know if being a Turk is all it’s cracked up to be,” he promised.

“You’d better!” Max laughed. “Incidentally, can I see you for a minute?”

“Um sure,” Nero said, even as she drew him away and down the hall.

“I have a present for you,” she said, grinning widely. Nero knew that grin and wondered if the present was wrapped in a box or...something else.

As there wasn’t a quiet spot to be had, and his room was full of other people’s jackets and coats, Max led him outside to the little postage stamp of back yard behind the house. There wasn’t much to admire; just the cement patio and a long, narrow strip of concrete leading to the back gate like a gray and brittle red carpet. An unstrung clothesline ran parallel on one side, and a pair of trash cans stood sentry on either side of the aforementioned back gate. It was cold, but not freezing, and heavily silent after the cheerful noise inside the house.

Without a word, she pulled him to one side and down to her level, pressing her lips against his. Nero stumbled slightly at first, but stooped to meet her more comfortably. It was always a little awkward, standing. He stood head-and-shoulders taller than she, and Max sometimes wondered if she ought to start carrying a step stool, or invest in a pair of platform heels. Even still it would probably only make her level with his chin at best. Thoughts of height discrepancies soon evaporated as Nero’s lips traced down the side of her throat. Max caught his face in both hands and lifted it to kiss him. 

Nero hadn’t had any idea what he was doing the first time she’d kissed him. He was good at it now, and didn’t need to mimic what she showed him. Indeed, he knew how to improvise on his own, and Max drew a deep breath as they came up for air. It might be the dead of winter but she didn’t feel the cold, just the rush of heat flooding up from her core and the warm touch of Nero’s wandering hands. Or maybe it was his shadows, sometimes it was hard to tell. 

“Nero,” she gasped, struggling to hold onto rational thought. His shadows were making it difficult. “The neighbors… Someone will see!”

“No they won’t,” he mumbled into her collarbone. On cue, the darkness enveloped them more closely, the modest shadows cast by the porch and the corner of the house becoming a veritable black hole. She thought fleetingly of suggesting the cave. It would be no trouble for him to warp them there, but she could not speak. Nero’s kisses burned against her skin, his touch sending goosebumps shivering through her that had nothing to do with the February chill. 

Suddenly she didn’t care that they were outdoors, that anyone might walk out the back door, that the neighbors might see. It was only her and Nero behind their curtain of darkness. Nero had spent more than a month behind glass, submerged in dark mako. Had he been any other patient, he might have lain in a hospital bed where she could have at least held his hand, but he’d been walled off and unable even to speak. Now he was here, warm and solid, and Max threw her arms around him, suddenly desperate to make sure he was really there.

Nero caught her easily, turning her kiss from one urgency to another. It was strange to be kissing him without being submerged. Strange, but wonderful. To know he was safe without his mask, without his mako suit had been answer to more than one person’s prayer. He still wore shadows beneath his street clothes like a second skin; perhaps it was a mental block on Nero’s part. Max didn’t care. Shadows were easier to get around than the mako suit, and hid even less.

Max squeaked in surprise behind their kiss as Nero hefted her in his arms and shoved her not ungently against the wall. The roughness of cold brick was softened by a layer of thick shadows, a mere detail in the back of her mind as Max groped for Nero’s belt. The shadows might be cushioning her from the bricks, but they weren’t shielding Nero from her. His breath hitched at her touch, his whole body tensing.

“Shh…” she whispered, struggling to breathe herself, Nero’s panted breaths hot against her neck.

“Max...” he managed, voice low and husky.

“Nero,” she murmured and pulled him close. It was all the invitation he needed. He closed what little space there was between them, pressing her against the wall. Max held on, kissing whatever she could reach. It wasn’t easy to hold back, to keep quiet. Nero never said much, the only sound he ever made was a deep rumble somewhere at the bottom of his throat, almost as if he were purring. The sound vibrated against her chest, the deep notes rolling through her. Max couldn’t quite suppress a whimper. She had been so worried, so scared. There had been too many moments when she’d been certain he would never hold her again, but now…

Her own indrawn breath sounded deafening in her ears. All around them the night was silent, save for their own labored breathing. Gradually sounds of the party inside began to filter through, as did the cold of the winter air. Skirts were convenient for a lot of things, but keeping warm was not one of them. Gently, Nero set her down, holding her steady until she found her feet again. It took a bit longer than she’d anticipated.

“Love you,” she whispered, stretching for one more kiss. Nero leaned easily to meet her and murmured against her lips: 

“Love you too.”


	58. Belated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little post-script to Nero's story.  
> After all, it's not his story alone.

_  
It had never been easy for Vincent and Nero to communicate. Neither were men of many words, and likewise were not terribly effective at expressing what was on their minds, much less what was in their hearts. Some might attribute that to Vincent being a product of his time; those of his generation were a stoic lot who kept calm and pushed through. Vincent let the assumption stand. It was a lot better than the truth: both his son and himself were emotionally crippled, socially inept introverts for whom stringing three words together was a major achievement. Despite all that, Vincent desperately wanted to get to know his son. However, his son was unavailable for comment._

_Nero drifted silently in the mako tank, unconscious. The only noise was the soft hiss and ripple of bubbles as the CPAP mask forced oxygen and dark mako into and out of his lungs. Since Nero couldn’t talk to him- and even if he could, the conversation was likely to be awkward at best- Vincent did the next best thing._

_Shalua had given him a thick folder full of papers and photographs when she’d told him Nero was his biological son. It was too much to balance on his knees, so he sat down on the unoccupied cot and opened the folder next to him. Given that Nero and his siblings had been specifically plotted and planned months before even their conception, Vincent had to dig through a lot of preliminary material before he found what he was looking for._

_A date: February twelfth followed by the year. It was marked as the day Nero had been born. Ironically, the child of shadow had been born at dawn: 5:29am. It was now closer to 5:29pm, but the date was correct. Vincent looked up at the sleeping boy- well, man- in the tank. Nero had been twenty-one for twelve hours and he’d had no idea._

_Joy and sorrow had been having the most violent of wrestling matches in Vincent’s gut and heart ever since Nero had wandered unannounced and unexpected into his life. Nero had not known his own birthday, and had had only a rough idea of how old he was. Apparently birthdays were one more thing that Deepground had deemed unnecessary._

_Legal age for damn near everything except enlistment had been much younger in Vincent’s day. Now it ran the gamut from army enlistment at fifteen thanks to the war in Wutai, marriage at eighteen, to drinking at twenty-one. Vincent wasn’t sure why a kid who was apparently mature enough to fire a gun or start a family couldn’t have a drink, but that was Shinra logic for you. Then again, Nero had been an adult for a long time regardless of his age._

_Vincent sat silent, everything and nothing floating through his mind as he stared at the tank. Veld found him like that, an assortment of Polaroids and snapshots clutched in both hands. Without a word, Veld sat down next to him and put his arm around him. Vincent leaned against him gladly, tilting his head so that his cheek rested on Veld’s hair._

_“How’s he doing?” Veld asked, though the tone suggested Vincent could apply the inquiry to himself if he liked._

_“It’s his birthday today,” Vincent responded, holding up the document he’d found. “He’s twenty-one.”_

_Veld took the paper from him and contemplated it for a moment. What did one say to that?_

_“I missed all those years,” said Vincent, staring at the clinical piece of paper. “His first steps, first words, all the milestones. Deepground probably didn’t even bother to note any of those things. He was just an experiment to them.”_

_He looked at Veld. “How do I make up for that? For not being there. For the way they treated him.”_

_Veld had no answer for that, not in words, anyway. Instead, he rubbed Vincent’s shoulder with one hand, wishing he had something profound and comforting to say. All he could do was shake his head._

_“I wish I knew,” he said quietly. “I was away so much when Felicia was little, and then she was gone… I wasn’t there for her either.”_

_“I didn’t mean…” Vincent began._

_“I know, spook,” Veld said, kissing his cheek. There was no one to see, and Vincent needed that extra bit of attention. “It’s not a contest. You and Nero were cut from the same cloth, and because of that you butt heads sometimes, but I think he knows that he’s important to you. Hell, to us. Gotten quite the soft spot for him myself.”_

_That earned him a small, short-lived smile. “I hope so.”_

_“Think you could let Shalua keep an eye on him for a little while? I’ll make your favorite.”_

_Vincent shook his head. “You go. I’m going to stay here.”_

_“Okay,” Veld agreed, giving him one last squeeze before standing and heading out._

_\--_

_“Veld?”_

_Shelke stood in the doorway to his office looking uncertain, a manilla folder clutched to her chest. Removing his reading glasses, Veld put down his pen and pushed back his chair._

_“Shelke, come in,” he said, standing to meet her. “What’s the matter? Is it Nero?”_

_“No, it isn’t Nero,” she told him, coming over and setting the folder down on his desk. “It’s Sephiroth.”_

_Veld blinked._

_“I...did some digging,” Shelke began. “I remembered what you said about Sephiroth possibly being Vincent’s son. I know there’s no way to prove it, but I also know how Vincent can get when he’s got his heart set on something.”_

_Veld smiled, unable to help a small chuckle. “He can be determined that way, yes.”_

_“I know when I was in Deepground I would have given my eyeteeth just for a picture of Shalua and my parents. So. I found a few things.”_

_She pushed the folder toward him. Veld took it and opened it, resetting his glasses on his nose. Inside was an assortment of photographs. The first few were of a baby, then a toddler, then a little boy, apparently all of them same child. It wasn’t until Veld had flipped through several of them that he realized who the little boy in all of the pictures was._

_“Shelke, are these all of Sephiroth?”_

_She nodded. “There was an informal cache as well as some official ones buried in the old Shinra database. I guess whoever put them there thought they were encrypted thoroughly enough to keep out anyone who wasn’t supposed to be in there.”_

_“But not you,” Veld said, feeling a smirk pull at his cheek._

_Shelke grinned. “Not me. I thought Vincent might want them. Then I thought, well, maybe this would just be more pain on top of an already difficult situation. So I figured I’d show you first and see what you thought.”_

_Veld nodded appreciatively. “This was very kind of you Shelke, on both counts. I definitely think Vincent would want to have these. However, I also think you’re right, it’d be too much to ask him to try to deal with his guilt concerning Sephiroth while Nero’s in such rough shape.”_

_“Okay,” Shelke agreed with a nod. “Would you like to hang onto them for him, or shall I take them back?”_

_“I’ll keep them,” Veld decided, replacing the photos into the folder. “I’ll keep them safe for him until he’s ready. Thank you.”_

\--

It wasn’t until months after Nero had come home that Veld even remembered he had the photos. Digging around for a case file he’d mislaid, he found both it and the folder toward the back of a desk drawer. Like so many things, he’d put it away so well he’d temporarily forgotten what he’d done with it. Setting the case file aside for a moment, he flipped through the pictures.

Nero had been home for a while now. He wasn’t wearing the respirator overnight, and had recently returned to the Turk barracks on a part-time basis. After losing his Deepground family, Nero didn’t like being completely alone if he could avoid it, especially overnight. Things had calmed considerably, had almost returned to normal- for a specific definition of ‘normal’, anyway. Well, he had time. He could at least begin preparations for presenting them at a later date.

\--

Vincent yawned as he headed down the hall to the bedroom to change. Veld had been delayed and would be home in perhaps thirty minutes or so. In the meantime, Vincent had promised to finish cleaning up the kitchen before Veld got home. He didn’t bother to click on the light as he wandered down the familiar passage.

Wait.

A glint of light caught his eye and he stopped short. There was a framed picture on the wall, several in fact. When had those been put up? Neither he nor Veld were much on decorating. Surely he would have remembered, would have noticed before this. Flicking on the light, Vincent took a closer look. His hand rose to cover his mouth of its own accord.

A little boy with stark white skin and black-and-gold eyes stared back at him. The boy wasn’t smiling exactly, but there was something curious and engaging about his expression. Rays of light slanted through the deep purple liquid that surrounded him, his hair floating around him, as if he’d just turned his head. It was Nero, and he could not have been more than four years old.

There were more farther down the hall. Nero as a baby, seen through a filter of deep purple. Nero in his first respirator playing with two children whose faces were sadly beyond the frame of the photo, but could only be Weiss and Rosso. A reedy little Nero in his first mako suit. Vincent recognized them all as enlarged, retouched versions of the photos in Nero’s file. Veld must have put them together as a surprise. Warmth blossoming in his chest, Vincent turned to head back into the bedroom but stopped short.

Another black-haired boy stared back at him from the opposite side of the hall. A little boy with fair skin and brilliant green eyes.

_Sephiroth…_

Where the hell Veld had found these he had no idea, but dear gods… There were coordinating pictures for each of them, exactly the same number of photos on each side of the hall. One could see the family resemblance easier in the earlier photos, before Sephiroth’s hair had faded to its iconic silver-white. His boys… _His boys…_ Vincent swallowed hard, feeling tears prick at his eyes.

“So….you like it then?”

Veld had snuck up behind him. Turning, Vincent stared at him for a moment. The silence stretched so long that Veld’s smile faltered. Rather than have Veld think he’d done wrong, Vincent threw his arms around him in a hug.

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaaand that's it!
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, for every comment, kudos, and bookmark!
> 
> Thank you for your kind support!
> 
> Thank you all.


End file.
